


Never and Always

by Charis



Series: Never and Always [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Emotional Baggage, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Families of Choice, Friendship, Offscreen Violence, Season 2 spoilers, Trust Issues, background d'Artagnan/Constance Bonacieux, feeble attempts at historical accuracy, mood whiplash is a thing, unexpected spy shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-19 15:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3614349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charis/pseuds/Charis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The ending is where we start from.' In which Milady turns around at Le Havre, and Athos is absolutely (okay, mostly) sure he doesn't trust her motives, and things progress from there against the background of impending conflict. Canon divergence after the end of season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers all the way through the end of 2x10, albeit mostly in the big abstract metaplot sort of way.

_And what you thought you came for_  
_Is only a shell, a husk of meaning_  
_From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled_  
_If at all. Either you had no purpose_  
_Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured_  
_And is altered in fulfilment._  
_(…)_  
_What we call the beginning is often the end_  
_And to make an end is to make a beginning._  
_The end is where we start from._  
_\- (T. S. Eliot,_ Little Gidding _)_

 

He’s still not sure whether he would have gone with her or not, if the captain hadn’t taken the choice out of his hands. Cowardly as it was, he couldn’t decide -- had thought to go to the crossroads to see her and to talk with her and let the heart he’s only just on speaking terms with again decide. The notion was more than a little mad, but news of the impending war with Spain had spared him a choice, and by the time he’d galloped out to the crossroads, all that remained of her was a single glove that he’d tucked into his belt before turning back to Paris.

In the tense days that follow, the glove remains there, and his fingers stray to brush the delicate fabric more than once. It’s a sentimental act, probably makes him look a damnable fool, but no one says anything. Porthos and d’Artagnan shoot sympathetic glances his way when they think he’s not looking; Tréville raises a brow in wordless question but doesn’t push. Athos just shrugs and goes about his work and tries not to think of her.

During the days it’s easy, when he’s usually too busy for more than fleeting thoughts, here and gone as the next demand arises. Nights vary: sometimes he’s too exhausted to do more than collapse onto his bed, but others he can’t sleep, sits and thinks of might-have-beens until they nearly drive him mad. Her absence is an ache he can’t stop prodding, and the most bitter part is that she no doubt thinks the worst of him for not even showing up to say goodbye -- for abandoning her again.

It would be too easy, on those darkest nights, to crawl into the bottle again as he had those many years ago, but he refuses to let that happen. Duty was not enough in his youth and it is not enough now, but he has family to consider, brothers he would be letting down -- and if he cannot stand without her, then it would mean the niggling fear that they will only destroy each other someday is true. He believed it once, but it’s a fate he will no longer accept.

Days blur even without the wine, in the chaos of preparation. Tréville keeps him busy, almost as if he’s afraid Athos will fall apart without the tasks, and Athos understands the sentiment behind the gesture and doesn’t protest. He appreciates what the older man is trying to do … and when he’s completely honest with himself, he can admit that keeping busy _does_ help.

Tréville also makes it clear Athos is his second in all but name, leaving him in command of the garrison as he is called to court more and more frequently. As such, it’s no surprise to hear someone calling for him from across the courtyard -- one of the gate guards, he thinks. “What?” he hollers; he and Porthos are in the middle of shifting a heavy crate and it’s not exactly a task to be set aside easily.

“Messenger!” the cadet yells back. Athos glances over at the other man as they wrestle the crate into place; Porthos just shrugs and tips his head in the direction of the gate. It’s not as if there’s much choice but to answer.

He’s not sure what he expects as they round the building to cross the yard -- doesn’t really expect much of anything, when messengers have been coming and going at all hours in this frenzy of activity. But whatever he might have anticipated, to see his wife dismounting just inside the courtyard certainly isn’t it.

Her back is to him as she rummages through her saddlebags. Beside him, Porthos makes a soft sound, more curious than disapproving. “Want me to handle this?” he offers, and there’s no reproach in the words.

The gesture warms him more than he’ll fully admit, but he shakes his head. “I think I must,” he says, a ragged exhalation.

The big man gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. He reaches up, covers the hand briefly with his own in tacit gratitude before moving towards the gate again.

She turns at his approach, and there’s an oilcloth case in her hands and a grimly businesslike expression on her face, though it softens briefly as their eyes lock. His throat is suddenly tight, so much that he can barely force the single syllable of her name out.

Her answering smile is sharp and fond all at once. “I have information here, fresh from Le Havre.” She flourishes the packet before adding, more quietly, “It seems I’ve developed an inexplicable fondness for the Musketeers in these past few weeks. I should hate to see you killed.”

~ * ~

Inside Tréville’s office, she lounges back against the windowsill, closing her eyes and trying to relax. The ride from Le Havre hadn’t been easy, especially not when she didn’t know if anyone would come after her, but it had mattered that she get here in time.

Part of her still wishes she’d had the sense not to turn around -- that she’d gone on to England as she’d planned. There had been more truth than she’d wanted to admit in their last conversation: she _is_ tired of who she’s become, of intrigues and schemes and murders just to keep her head above the water. She’s known in the shadowy underworld of France, by name and reputation, but in England she could have found a new home and a new name and a new start.

And within weeks, she’d almost certainly have been bored out of her wits.

 _‘Perhaps I was never made for quiet things,’_ she thinks, a little sadly. There are times she wishes she was, most often remembering those hazy golden days when they had been young and foolish and very much in love, but the more she thinks of it the more she realises her lies would eventually have shattered, with or without Thomas’ actions.

She opens her eyes again to find her husband watching her from across the room. His expression is guarded, wary, and she can’t entirely blame him when he’d no doubt finally thought himself rid of her.

“I would have come,” he says, abruptly enough to baffle her for a moment, “to talk, at least, but -- this happened. I did, when I could, but you were already gone.”

Oh. _Oh_. Her heart stutters in her chest; she looks out the window rather than at him, blinking against the sudden unexpected sting. “You were late.” The words are sharper than she intended, but she won’t apologise.

“I know.” Neither, it seems, will he. It’s always been one of their problems.

Silence. Then, “Why did you come back?”

She studies the courtyard below rather than giving him an immediate answer -- in part because she’s not altogether sure herself. It hadn’t been any one thing, after all, but a combination of many, a realisation that had her moving almost without thought after an overheard conversation at a dockside inn. But she can’t explain something she’s yet to make sense of, and so when she finally turns back it’s with a shrug. “Why would I want to miss all the excitement?” It’s not a lie; it just happens to be the barest fraction of the truth.

From the way Athos looks at her, it’s clear he’s unconvinced. “You’ve never done anything that didn’t benefit you,” he counters.

That stings, even if she can see why he’d believe it. It’s usually true. “Maybe I’ve reevaluated how I define benefit.”

Easier to keep her voice light, mocking both of them, but those sharp blue eyes study her in a way that makes her think he knows there’s more. He doesn’t push, though, just nods at the case still tucked in her arms -- too valuable, even now, to set aside -- and changes the subject. “That must be important.”

She smiles, because she’ll be damned if she won’t take pride in her work. “Reports from agents that will never get to Vargas.” Thanks to a courier with pockets full of stones, rolled into the water and under one of the wharfs. It should be weeks before anyone finds him, days at best before it’s realised he’s missing. “Names. Sources that can be used even if they don’t speak.” At least one of them will, though. Everyone has a weakness.

“And your price?”

The wary question makes her think too vividly of the tavern and the words he’d breathed in horror. He doesn’t -- _can’t_ \-- understand what it means to be a woman alone in the world. She has too much pride to accept charity, but she has no intentions of ever being the whore again, whether it be on the street or in a palace. Other than her body, she has only her skills to sell, and while those have led her down a single path in the past, there’s no reason she can’t turn them other ways.

She'd had time to think, on the road to Le Havre and even on her hurried return, and has realised that for all her words she can never be the woman she'd masqueraded as when she'd met Athos. But there are parts of that young Anne, bride of the new count, that she can still reclaim; maybe those are the first steps to figuring out who she can become -- who she can truly be, without the influence of another’s hold over her or the desperate need to survive. She doubts she’ll ever have a better chance.

And so she smiles, though it's a little strained, and pushes away from the window to join him at the table. "For this?" she asks, putting the satchel down between them. "Nothing. But you'll make better use of it if I'm involved. You know that. So does Tréville." No sense in false modesty when they both know full well the Musketeers are soldiers and not spies.

Athos' brows lift slightly, an expression of mild disbelief. "For the sake of France?" The words echo that same conversation.

Fortunately, Tréville's return spares her the need for a reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate titles. I hate titles so much. You have no idea how much I hate coming up with titles, especially for unfinished pieces. This one, and the initial quotes, are from T. S. Eliot’s _Little Gidding_ , part of _Four Quartets_.
> 
> This started out as an attempt to address an "Athos on his knees" [prompt](http://someroguishgambit.tumblr.com/post/114380096632/milathos-fan-fiction-challenge) on Tumblr that ended up somewhere else. But I like it, so I'll keep going, and maybe eventually I can comply with the prompt.
> 
> Not sure how long it'll be or how often I'll post; it's been a while since I put up something longer than a one-shot, and I have only the vaguest sense of where I'm heading at this point. Oops? In the meantime, you can find me over [on Tumblr](http://myalchod.tumblr.com) flailing around over characters being uncooperative and the other stories I'm simultaneously wrangling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical bits:  
> \- Compline is the last prayer service in the traditional Roman Catholic breviary, and would have fallen around nine in the evening.  
> \- The internets tell me that wages for a skilled labourer in 1630s France would've been around 5 livre a week, so that seemed a reasonable benchmark.

By the time Anne finishes explaining and falls silent, the captain’s expression is grave. He looks exhausted, Athos realises, the lines on his face only more pronounced in the flickering shadows. It makes him think for the first time that, despite all of his schemes and machinations, Richelieu had served as a very necessary complement to Tréville in court. It’s a strange and not particularly comfortable notion when he’d always looked at the cardinal solely as adversary.

“It’s something the king and queen should know about,” he says finally. It looks to Athos as if he’s steeling himself to ride back to the Louvre again.

“Why, so they know there are Spanish spies in France?” she retorts. “That’s hardly news. The less who know a secret, captain, the easier it is to keep -- and the fewer who know of this, the more use can be made from it. There’s no benefit to exposing these people when they’re the best network that France can tap into at the moment.” She looks up from sorting through the pages, a bemused smile tugging at her lips. “Even if they belong to the enemy.”

Tréville glances his way; Athos pushes away from the wall, shrugs faintly. “Wars are won with more than force of arms,” he admits. He’s always preferred to think of the saying as referring to a soldier’s wits, but he’s not so naive as to think information isn’t vital. It’s a lesson they’ve learned time and again in the past years, one that was reinforced painfully in the past few weeks.

“For France’s sake,” Anne says drily, unperturbed when he shoots her a quelling glance. “Someone has to be the pragmatist here. War’s a dirty business, and if you’re not willing to get your hands stained then your enemy starts out ahead. I’d have thought you learned that after Rochefort.”

The captain winces at that as if struck, but there’s an uncomfortable truth in her words -- a too-common occurrence as far as Athos is concerned. And in his new role, Tréville will have to deal with less than honourable paths whether he wants to or not, something all of them are quite aware of. “If you’re here, then you obviously have something in mind. Just get to the point.”

“The Spanish know you’re coming -- they probably suspected it from the point that Vargas vanished. Time is of the essence, both in seeding misinformation and gathering facts.” Her expression is grim and a little proud. “You know who taught me, Minister -- you know what I’m capable of. Don’t be too chivalrous to use that, when I’m offering.”

It’s what Athos had half-expected from the moment she mentioned the contents of the satchel, and yet the idea still makes him flinch. Her words (was it only a week ago?) may well have been true, and he may know her better than any man, but he’s all too aware how little of her he truly knows even now. Love and hate blinded him through the years, and whenever he thinks he’s got her figured out, she changes again, leaving him wondering whether anyone knows the truth of her, even herself. “Why?” he demands, before he can catch himself.

Her mouth tightens. “Because I would rather earn my living this way than on my back,” she all but spits at him.

Tréville stands, moves bodily between them before things can go any further. With his broad frame in the way, Anne is all but obscured, and so Athos can’t see her reaction. “Five livres per week,” he says. “I expect reports daily. You’ll be given enough information to shape them, but I want to know exactly what lies you convey. If you need money for bribes, speak to me. Otherwise, I expect you to work with Athos; as captain here he’ll be far more readily accessible.” His voice is steady but uncompromising. “If you two cannot work together, then you will be paid for what you’ve brought us today but no further.”

He knows just what that sort of statement will mean, to Athos even more than to Anne. It seems perhaps Tréville is willing to play politics when he must. He scowls, backing away to lean against the wall once more, but there’s no choice here, and the captain (minister, damn it) knows it.

“I suppose the choice is yours, then,” Anne addresses him over Tréville’s shoulder as she rises. “I’ll be down in the stable. Do come and tell me what you decide.”

He refuses to look at her -- refuses to look at Tréville once she’s gone and the door is closed, though he knows it’s petty. She’s always known just where to prod to bring out the worst in him. Only when Tréville sits back down does he turn his focus away from the window. “First captaincy, now this. I never thought you cruel before.”

“She’s right, and you know that just as well as I do. If you can’t work with her directly, pick someone else you can trust to do the job.” They both know he won’t, though. “This close to war, I don’t have the luxury of time or the knowledge to set up a brand new network. Richelieu’s dissolved with his death, and what didn’t Rochefort corrupted. There isn’t an alternative. We _need_ that information.”

“So you’ll bribe her --”

Tréville’s eyes flash dangerously. “It’s payment for a job, Athos, just like paying a damned blacksmith. The sooner you’re willing to see it that way, the sooner you two can stop cutting each other and start doing something useful. That’s what France needs from you right now. Are you going to do your duty or not?”

~ * ~

“Where will you go?”

She doesn’t turn away from her horse, busies herself instead with tightening the saddle’s girth and checking the other straps. “Have you decided to kick me out, then?” she asks, keeping her voice mocking.

He doesn’t move from the entrance to the stall, leaving her with only his voice as a clue to his mood. “I won’t be responsible for driving you from your home,” he says. The _again_ lingers between them unspoken, one more wound in the battle of words they can never seem to stray from long. She’d meant it, when she said they know each other better than anyone else, and the unfortunate side of that is how well they can cut each other with words alone.

“How very magnanimous.”

A creak of leather; when she does finally glance his way, she can can see his hands fisted at his sides, tension that runs up his shoulders and into his jaw. “Damn you, Anne,” he swears, and his voice is tight and raw, “I’m _trying_.”

She strides out of the stall, pushes past him and heads for the tack room to retrieve her saddlebags. He follows -- the thud of his boots on the packed earth echo her own steps -- but says nothing further, and as she yanks her bags off the hook she spins to face him, steps in, forcing him back against the wall. “What do you want from me, Athos?” she demands, and her voice is trembling despite her best efforts. “What in god’s name will it take for you to finally stop seeing the worst in me -- to finally believe anything I say? Because if there’s no chance of that, then this offer is a farce and I’d have been better off sailing for England after all.”

It had been easier before the tavern, before Catherine, before the kiss in Rochefort’s study or their last encounter here in the garrison -- before she’d had hope again. In the years after her supposed death, she had survived. She’d always been good at surviving. But somewhere along the way, she had stopped living, until he -- _damn him_ \-- made her believe she might be able to once more, that there could be more to her life than empty survival. More the fool she, to still be seduced by such foolish dreams.

He just looks at her, though, that hateful softness on his face, that wounded look as if he was the one who’d been hurt. “Is it so strange,” he asks quietly, “that I should worry about you?”

“When you give me hope only to shatter it again, it is.”

It’s not what she meant to say (something sharp and barbed instead, to drive that wedge back between them, to go back to a safe distance); he appears far less surprised by the words than she is. “I never meant to give you false hope.”

Her chin lifts, the only defiance she can manage right now. “I’ll find lodging in the city,” she says instead, forcing the conversation back to business. “If this is happening, it’s better that no one associate me with the Musketeers. I’ll try to deliver my reports in person whenever I can, but if I can’t get here I’ll send a message or a location. Will I be reporting to you or someone else.”

“Me.”

“Alright.” And she means that, because at least with him she knows where she stands. With any of the others, she’d have to deal with them trying to protect Athos from her -- ridiculous, as if he can’t manage well enough on his own. She’s gotten on well enough with Tréville in the past, but she understands, albeit grudgingly, why he delegated this.

Down to single words now, and she can’t stand that any more than she can stand the sadness in his eyes, and so she whirls back to the stall once again. He lets her go, but when she’s finished settling her things and leads her horse out into the courtyard, he falls in at her side again. “When will you come?”

“Compline.” It’s an easy marker; on the streets, the final prayers of the day form a rough demarcation between the world of ordinary men and the shadowy one she’s about to slip back into. It’ll give her the cover of darkness without cutting into valuable time.

He nods wordlessly. Outside, the courtyard has fallen into golden shadows, the sun sinking low behind the surrounding buildings. When she finishes one last check of the tack, she turns back to find Athos standing there, one hand slightly extended. It’s a gesture all too reminiscent of the last time she’d mounted up in this courtyard, only this time it’s more about offering an olive branch and less about games of power. And so she lets him help her mount, savors all too briefly the flex of his shoulder under her fingers as he boosts her up, the warmth of his hand at her knee. “Until tomorrow,” he murmurs with an ironic little half-bow as he steps back.

“Until tomorrow,” she agrees. She spares the briefest glance for the balcony where Tréville is watching in silence, ignoring the older man’s satisfied expression. If he’s paying her, he can be smug all he likes.

And if she’s going to earn that pay, there’s much she still has to accomplish, and there’s no sense in wasting time dwelling on things she has no control over. She nudges her horse out the gate and into the streets of Paris, telling herself the thrill of anticipation is simply the hunt ahead of her.

She doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I think "mood whiplash" is an excellent byword for these two; I suppose it only makes sense when each knows exactly how to push the other's buttons.
> 
> I realised I'd painted myself into a bit of a corner by writing the first part without having properly watched the season 2 finale (I originally caught about fifteen scattered minutes with audio, and parts of the rest while muted), so I'm trying to work around that here. I think the only part I'm outright ignoring is the boys riding off to retrieve Aramis; Athos' transition into captaincy is perhaps a bit slower.
> 
> (As always, you can find me [on Tumblr](http://myalchod.tumblr.com).)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lauds is the 3am prayers. Looking at the canonical hours makes one realise why people used to use church bells as a means of tracking the time historically. They really did go off all. The. Time. XD

Her first twenty-four hours back in Paris fly by faster than she expected. She finds herself a room on the edge of one of the city’s less savoury districts; there’s risk in doing so, but it’s an area she knows well and they remember enough of her face and her reputation that she thinks she won’t be unduly troubled. Once she has the room arranged to her liking, and the papers she brought with her safely hidden, she pauses in the centre to take it all in. This is familiar, the small room nearly bare but for bed and chair and small table all worn with years and grime something she knows and fits into far more than the palace ever would have -- far more than the sweet interlude of the chateau she’d burned down in retaliation had ever been. Is it where she belongs?

She scowls at that thought. The streets may cling to her like dust wherever she goes, but she refuses to believe in that sort of immutable fate. Her place will be where she makes it; that’s one promise that she intends to keep, made to herself years ago and repeated in dark hours, even if she’s not entirely certain where she wants that place to be anymore.

This is no time for daydreams, though, not when there is work to be done. Tonight she’ll get her bearings and reestablish her position, laying groundwork and making a few connections she’s certain to need. There will be enough time tomorrow to follow up on some of the names before she’s due to report in -- time to see what she can do with those threads. She’ll give Athos no reason to protest the wages Tréville is paying her any further.

It’s oddly comfortable, sinking back into the shadows that had once been her home. She’d spent most of her childhood there, though few would connect the poised and deadly Milady de Winter with the scrawny girl she’d once been, orphaned young and struggling to survive by any means necessary. It’s been over a year since she’d last left in earnest (since Athos had told her he’d kill her if he saw her in Paris again, and yet here she still is, and his have not been the hands raised to kill her) and yet it’s almost too easy to slip back into the rhythm of these darker streets. It makes her wonder, before she ruthlessly puts the thought out of her mind, whether she’s truly changed in any meaningful way, but this is not the time for distractions.

By the time she returns to her little rented room (checking and double-checking for tails along the way), the bells are ringing for Lauds. She’s exhausted in a way she hasn’t been in a while, not just physically from the day’s ride but mentally as well -- despite that ease, it had taken all of her wits to spin the tales she needs to spin. It doesn’t stop her from checking her room before and after entry, another habit ingrained over the years. She barely has the energy left to drape her clothes neatly over the chair, tuck her poniard into its familiar place beneath her pillow, and crawl into bed.

The sun is up when she wakes, painting bars of light on the floor where it creeps past the shutters. It must be well into the morning, judging by the angle, but that’s likely to become her habit now -- the work she’s doing will run late into the night, and she’s unlikely to need the early hours of the day. But there’s no sense in dallying, and so she rises and dresses with swift efficiency, considering her list of prospects as she does so. There’s a cloth merchant she’d visited before on there, one she’d visited during her time at the Louvre who has strong open ties to the Spanish import business, and it should be easy enough to play the woman scorned, yearning to exact her revenge on the king who’d tossed her out on her ear.

She walks, in the end; it feels good to stretch her legs after several days ahorse, and winding her way through the streets is a good way to get a finger back on the pulse of the city. That’s not strictly part of her mandate, but she’d be a poor spy if she didn’t keep an ear open. The meeting is enlightening; Monsieur Bisset remembers her and is unexpectedly voluble, particularly when she drops hints of her dissatisfaction with certain members of the court. He’s unlikely to provide her much concrete, not with how he chatters on, but he’s definitely one to pay a visit to once she knows the rumours Tréville wants her to seed. She’s already laid the groundwork for what she suspects will be involved.

The day’s long and tiring and far from over, and despite all that she’s feeling more alive than she has in a while when she leaves her rooms for the garrison. It’s a refreshing change.

~ * ~

She’s waiting in the captain’s office -- _his_ office now, damn Tréville -- when he arrives. There’s a single candle burning at the end of the table, and it throws her features into soft relief: dark head bent over her writing, brows drawn together in a slight frown, teeth worrying at her lip as she pauses before starting again. Athos says nothing at first, though he’s certain she’s aware of his presence; he’s not entirely sure how to begin, and it’s clear she’s in the middle of something.

When she’d left the night before, Tréville had gestured him back upstairs. Standing on the balcony watching the night shift change, the older man had said, “I’m asking this of you because it’s needed. This isn’t cruelty.” It was clear the words earlier had bothered him.

Athos had looked back steadily, worn out from the argument and the tension of the evening. “It’s well-intentioned cruelty.” His mouth had twisted, the grudging admission following, “But I do understand why.” And yet watching Anne scribbling away at the desk, altogether comfortable in these surroundings, it occurs to him that perhaps he really doesn’t.

She looks more herself than she had last night in the stables, though he wonders how much of that is due to neither of them having spoken yet, shattering the calm. But there’s a steadiness there, a certainty, as if she’s no longer balancing on that same knife’s edge. Maybe it’s as simple as a good night’s sleep and the knowledge of where she stands. Whatever the reason, it almost makes him smile. She may think otherwise all she likes; he takes no pleasure in seeing her miserable.

She finishes writing, sets pen back into its rest, and finally looks up. “If I’d known you were going to be delayed, I’d have waited to come until later.”

He almost fires back a retort reflexively, but manages to curb the sharp words at the last moment to shrug instead. “There was a problem.”

Something flickers in her pale eyes as they assess him quickly, looking for -- injury? evidence of drunkenness? She’ll be disappointed if she was searching for either, when what drew him away was nothing more than a particularly recalcitrant alchemist who’d insisted on speaking to the captain directly about the gunpowder order. It had been an exhaustingly frustrating encounter, and the last thing he needs tonight is a battle with her.

To put off speech a little longer, he crosses to the sideboard, pours two mugs of wine, offers her one as he sits. She’s in -- well, he supposes it’s his chair now, but he’s not in a mood to quibble and he’s far more accustomed to sitting on this side anyway, opposite Tréville in the past. “Well?”

She slides the top sheet of paper across to him. It’s the key to a cipher, one he suspects she intends for him to use. “Tréville wanted to know what tales I convey. Those are best written in case he needs to refer to them later.” A second sheet follows the first, obviously meant to be a match. He picks it up, works his way -- slowly at first, but more easily the further he goes -- through the first line, then glances up in mild surprise.

“Continuing difficulties between their majesties?”

One shoulder hitches up in a vague half-shrug. “The best lies are built from truth. Broken trust is hard to mend; no matter the faces they show in public, surely their private relations must be strained. Perhaps his majesty of Spain even thinks to console his poor sister -- or to use it as an excuse for war.” She grins now, a flash of white teeth in the dimness. “Let that one sit for a few weeks, then ensure that the king and queen are seen to be genuinely loving in public. The rest will follow on its own.”

It’s fascinating, to see her come alive like this. It occurs to him that he’s never seen her at intrigues properly before, except perhaps that one brief glimpse at Ninon Delarroque’s trial (when he’d been too furious to really pay attention). But oh, the spark in her eyes as she explains, the animation in her features -- it’s the same satisfied joy he’d seen when she’d picked the lock on Rochefort’s coffer. She knows she’s good at this, and glories in that, and seeing that forces him to once again reassess the woman before him.

She talks him through the rest of the rumours she’d listed, and as they go through them Athos begins to get a picture of the web she’s swiftly weaving, and can’t help but be grudgingly impressed. It shouldn’t surprise him, knowing Richelieu had trained her, but he’d mostly measured the cardinal’s skill at deceptions by the blistering oaths Tréville had sworn in this very office when the Musketeers were caught up in them. It’s an entirely different thing to see it from the spider’s perspective, in the middle of the web.

“You enjoy this,” he says in a lull, unable to fully keep the surprise from his voice.

Anne’s eyes shutter, a defensive mask that rises in a blink. “Why shouldn’t I?" she fires back.

It hadn’t been meant to start an argument, though, and so he just shakes his head wearily. “It just never occurred to me.” When her gaze softens a little he continues, emboldened, “Neither of us are the people we were in Pinon. But neither do I see before me the woman I would have killed given a chance.” Though he’d been wrong to believe he could do such a thing, it’s not a realisation he’s about to admit.

She’s studying him now, expression almost wistful. “I’m not going to make a fool of myself again by asking for things you won’t give. When this is over, you’ll go off to lead your men to war, and my usefulness will have passed.” The words are spoken with the quiet certainty of one who’s been cast aside too often.

“Anne --”

He reaches for her hand but she pushes her chair back abruptly, rises before he can make contact. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Athos. I’ve had enough lies in my life.” She shrugs back into her cloak as she continues, brusquely businesslike, “That’s the whole of tonight’s report. I’ll be back again tomorrow.”

He lets her go with no more than an acknowledging nod. What else can he do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one wrote up faster than I expected; I was originally going to hold off posting until tomorrow to try for a regular sort of interval but then I got impatient. XD Hoping to have the next part up Sunday.
> 
> Headcanon: while I don't think Anne is using a cipher Richelieu taught her, she probably based hers on Bible verses in the same manner he would have his during lessons. (The verses she selects are always things that amuse her in some way.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La Petite Chaise is [an actual Parisian restaurant](http://blog.velib.paris.fr/en/2013/11/07/the-oldest-parisian-restaurants/), originally opened in 1680 as a wine merchant's tavern . Partner in crime found it for me when I asked for a name for an inn or tavern, and given Athos' drinking habits I couldn't pass it up. So it'll just have to open a bit earlier (or lend its name to the place here) ...

She doesn’t come back the next day, though; instead, a message shows up in the early evening, delivered by a scrawny ragged child who keeps looking over at Porthos with undisguised awe. After the child has gone again, Athos breaks the seal and unfolds the note -- two sheets, one blank and the other containing only the briefest of messages. _Husband,_ she has written, _I must beg your forgiveness for being unavoidably detained this eve, on account of a mutual friend. But if you meet me tomorrow at sundown at La Petite Chaise, I swear upon my soul to repay your kind indulgence._ It’s signed _your loving wife_ , and while he’s sure it’s to throw off anyone who happened to open the missive, it makes his mouth twist and his chest ache all the same.

The second sheet confuses him, and so he folds it back inside the letter and tucks both into his doublet. When he rejoins Porthos and d’Artagnan, both give him quizzical looks. Athos receiving letters is rare enough; even after Pinon him reading them, much less immediately, is far less common.

“Just Anne,” he says, by way of an explanation.

D’Artagnan’s eyes narrow as he scowls. “I don’t understand why you’re trusting her -- why the captain’s trusting her. She’s a snake.”

It’s not something he can answer readily, when he’s still asking himself the same. Anne’s changed since they forced her out of Paris last year, and though Athos can’t point to exactly what it is that convinced him (perhaps that moment when Catherine had pushed, though he suspects that instant was only confirmation of things he had already decided but not admitted to himself), he believes that she truly wants to change. It’s something he’s wanted too, though not for the same reasons. Maybe he believes because he wants to think they both can.

“Captain’s got his reasons,” Porthos says though, before he can find a reply. “Both of ‘em. Question becomes whether you can trust _them_ , really, not her.” When Athos glances over at him sharply, more than a little surprised, Porthos shrugs. “There’s plenty of folk who can come from bad ends and still make good.”

D’Artagnan subsides with a faint grumble. Athos can understand his reservations, particularly in light of Constance’s interactions with Anne, but the decision is made, and if he wants to learn to be a good soldier d’Artagnan will have to accept it. “At least she got Aramis out,” he admits, if grudgingly.

She had -- even if it was because she knew what the man means to him (or some even more arcane reason) rather than because it was the right thing to do, the thought warms him. And yet she’d stood there and watched coldly while Tréville was shot in the back. Sometimes he doesn’t understand her at all.

He reaches back into his doublet, pulls out the letter and hands over the blank page. Better to steer the conversation away from this subject. “Any guesses as to what this might be?” And truth be told, he’s genuinely unsure.

“Besides something to drive us all to confusion?” d’Artagnan mutters, but he takes the page and studies it closely. After a moment he frowns, dipping his head to sniff the paper. “Huh. Did she start using orange blossoms instead of forget-me-nots?”

Athos thinks back to that exchange in the stables, the familiar floral perfume filling his senses when she’d forced him back against the wall, and can only shake his head. Even after five years he’d recognised its distinctive scent; he has no doubts he’d notice if she’d changed it. The observation means more to Porthos, though, who snatches the paper out of d’Artagnan’s fingers and makes for the stairs.

“It’s an old trick,” he explains when they catch up to him. He finishes lighting the candle on the desk before taking the paper up again, holding it a careful distance away. Both Athos and d’Artagnan watch, baffled, as he shifts it carefully, closer and closer in minute increments, until he seems to find the correct distance. Minutes pass in silence before he gives a gleeful, “Ha!” And, when d’Artagnan makes a questioning sound, “We used to use onions for this, when I was a kid, but the man who taught us showed us with lemon. It’s for passing messages so no one can read ‘em easily.” As he speaks, he continues to shift the page, working slowly from the top down to the bottom. “Looks like it’s in code?”

“Probably,” Athos concedes; after all, she’d mentioned using the cipher for her summaries.

“So you’ll deal with that, then. And I suppose that means she’s keeping her end up, so all’s good.” A little frown of concentration knits his brows together. “How much longer before we move out, Athos?”

It’s not any of the questions he might have anticipated. D’Artagnan looks over at him, an eager gleam in his eyes, and Athos fights the urge to sigh. Of course their pup is restless; he hasn’t seen the true depths of war. That enthusiasm makes him suddenly feel decades older. “Tréville wants to move the infantry out first, with the scouts as support. The artillery still needs another week to be completely ready; the heavier pieces will go with the infantry, but supplies are going to have to come in a second group. That’ll be us and the cavalry as escort. Ten days at the earliest, two weeks at most.”

The other two exchange a glance; this time it’s d’Artagnan who speaks. “We’re missing someone.”

He’s been wondering when the subject will come up. “Aramis made his choice. It’s not our place to judge him.”

The younger man’s hands fist at his sides. Porthos snorts. “How can he make a choice if he doesn’t know the things he’s picking between?”

There’s a point there, and while Athos means what he said, not judging doesn’t make him miss his brother any less. Looking at the other two, he’s well aware they feel the same. And Porthos has a point; Aramis made an oath to defend his country before he ever contemplated the holy orders. It’s not their place to decide, any more than it is to judge. “Four days,” he says. “With him or without him. I can’t spare you both any longer than that. Pack tonight and get on the road at first light before I regret my decision.”

~ * ~

He’s already there when she gets to the tavern just past sunset, ensconced at a corner table with a good view with a good view of the door, turned so his back is to the wall. It makes her smile despite herself; soldier or spy, some habits are clearly the same. He rises as she picks her way across the busy common room, takes her hand and bends over it briefly before letting her slip past him and onto the bench opposite. The gesture, especially the brush of his lips against her gloved fingers, confuses her for a moment until she remembers the tone of yesterday’s note. Of course; only a deception would make him openly demonstrative now.

“My lady,” he murmurs, but his gaze is focussed on the wine he’s pouring for her and she can’t begin to guess at his thoughts. By the time he looks back up, his eyes are opaque again. “I trust your meeting was worth the delay?”

She strips off her gloves before accepting the mug he slides across to her, takes refuge in drinking to give herself a moment to frame her thoughts. He’s setting the tone for tonight’s interaction; it’s not quite what she’d expected, so she’s having to recalibrate -- and god knows he’s proving adept at putting her off-balance, intentionally or otherwise.

“Well worth it,” she says finally. It’s nothing less than the truth. “She had a great deal on the newest fashions from abroad -- I shall have to show you the sketches later, so you can help me decide which will suit best.” Coquettishly lowered lashes and a slightly wicked note in her voice will leave any listeners with no doubt as to her reasons for wanting him alone later -- but Athos being Athos, she’s certain he’ll register the excuse for what it is.

They banter through the meal, which is perhaps a little faster than is altogether seemly -- but after all, who can fault a couple reunited after time apart? She flirts a little more than strictly necessary, just to watch his jaw tighten, because she’s determined to enjoy this while it lasts and he deserves it for throwing her off at the start. She’s no fool; this interlude, pleasant as it’s proving to be, will end all too soon when France marches for war. Best to get as much as she can out of it. That’s always been her course for surviving.

“I trust you're not intending to abandon me right away,” he says as they head out into the street, and she slants him a sharp look. His eyes are on the street rather than on her, his expression as bland as ever. “We’ve a great deal to discuss, after all.”

The innuendo is only for the act, only because of the framing of this conversation. It shouldn’t make her think of sunlit fields or cramped hidden rooms when she should be focussed on whether anyone is watching them. She takes a steadying breath, laughs soft and low and not trembling in the least. “Why would I run, my lord?” she replies, careful non-answer clothed in easy words. They both know her response isn’t just about fooling the people around them, though.

They both know she’s not -- never has been -- the one who ran. If she had, she wouldn’t have come back to Paris, not in the spring and not now.

Nearly back at the garrison, she realises there are still eyes on them. It seems one of their tails isn’t convinced by the act, perhaps knows too much to be fooled. She tightens her fingers where they’re tucked into the crook of his arm in wordless warning and steers him to one side of the street, ostensibly to peer at a carved chest displayed behind an iron grate.

“What --?”

“Watcher,” she hisses.

His mouth tightens further for an altogether different reason, and then he murmurs an apology. Before she has time to ask why, he’s backed her into the shadows at the mouth of an alley, one hand braced beside her head and the other cupping her jaw as he kisses her.

It’s a shock, unexpected even with the tension spawned from tonight’s interplay. She knows why he’s doing it -- lending credence to their seeming may drive the last eyes away, or at least convince them this is nothing more complicated than a reunion between lovers -- and yet she can’t help responding, mouth opening to his, body pliant where he leans into her, fingers coming up to delve into his hair. It would be too easy to forget it’s meant as a sham, especially with the attraction that crackles between them in every moment, but god, now is not the time --

He tears his mouth from hers, presses it to her neck instead, asks, “Still there?” in a low tense voice that vibrates against her skin.

Her head falls back against the stone, half-lidded eyes scanning the area. There's a flicker of shadow above, a faint scrape of foot against slate. "Leaving," she whispers against his lips as she tugs his head back up to hers, leaving just enough room to speak. "Not quite gone."

Another kiss; she forces herself to concentrate on the signs even as the warmth of his body and the scent of leather and gunpowder threaten to fill her senses. It’s sound alone now, scarcely audible as the footsteps recede, but when they fade into silence she uses the fingers wound in his hair to pull his head back. She’s pretty sure they’re not still being watched, but she’s not entirely willing to trust her senses right now. It’s important to frame what needs to happen within the context of this encounter, and so she just meets his eyes (ignoring, because she can’t afford to notice right now, the way they’ve darkened). “Not here,” she says firmly, this time at a more normal volume.

He steps back, rakes a hand through his hair to restore some order to the tousled locks. For a moment she can see him thinking, no doubt weighing what just occurred against the hypothetical information she has for him and the possibility of watchers still there, and then he offers her his arm again. “Forgive me, my lady.”

She doesn’t look at him at first, studiously intent on setting herself back to rights. The words are weighted with deeper meaning; how can she reply? But pretence demands she respond, and so when she looks up it’s with a smile curving her mouth, softness and sharp edges. “We can discuss that later,” she murmurs, and tucks her fingers back into the crook of his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orange juice (or any other acidic juice) is an actual invisible ink (I think d'Artagnan can be forgiven for confusing it with the flowers by smell alone). It's far from the most secure, but that plus a cipher seemed good enough, and it's more to be unobtrusive than truly secure. It's also something Anne could obtain readily and without arousing suspicion.  
> Bonus amusement: in this time period, orange blossoms would've been used as a flower for brides, stemming from an older association of them with innocence, purity and chastity. Just as well Aramis isn't around when d'Artagnan asks about it, since if anyone would snicker knowingly it would be him. (That was entirely accidental; I didn't know that association until I looked it up afterwards.)
> 
> I have a thing for Milady referring to Athos as 'husband', something that's half epithet and half stealth endearment. (It also seems like something he wouldn't quite know how to react to, which would be an attractive fringe benefit.)
> 
> This one ... didn't go where I had expected, and I'm actually pretty nervous about posting it. That's always fun.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So any complaining I did about the last chapter getting away from me? Goes tenfold for this one. (I regret nothing, except how much hell that's making the next part to write ...)

Neither of them speaks as they finish making their way back to the garrison. The silence is tense, heavy with all the things left unspoken, but it’s achingly clear this is not the time. There are, as there have always seemed to be, too many other pressing matters.

The captain’s office is dark when he opens the door. She slips past to light the taper waiting on the desk, busying herself with that to avoid looking at him a little longer. It’s his territory here, and after everything that’s passed between them (tonight, since her return, in the weeks that followed the eclipse) she can’t help feeling wildly off-kilter. It’s not a feeling she enjoys.

“You have news,” he says, once the door is closed.

She’s more grateful than she’ll admit for the unexpected (unintentional?) solicitude. Getting back to business lets her ignore the turmoil of emotions in favour of concentrating on facts. “You’ll want to take notes,” she begins, crossing to the window. The shutters are drawn and she does not open them, tracing her finger against the slats almost absently as she puts her thoughts in order. “I managed to locate one of Richelieu’s old network. She was willing to talk. It seems she’s been hoarding information in hopes someone would pay.” She turns back, catches the edge of a grimace before his expression smooths out. It seems even now he expects the worst of her, though if she’s being honest it’s fair, given some of the things she’s done. This time there had been no threats and no blades involved, however. “I’ll have to make sure I put a bill in to the minister.”

A flicker of emotion darkens his eyes (relief? surprise?) but his voice is just as neutral as his face as he remarks, without even looking up, “I’ve a meeting with him here tomorrow at noon.” Paper, pen and ink all find their way from the drawers onto the table’s surface before he looks up expectantly. “So?”

She talks -- numbers, rumours, locations and dates and where France has resources already across the border. Not names; she knows a few, and her contact had added several others, but that’s information neither Athos nor Tréville need. She paces the small room and talks her throat dry, pours herself a drink (and then one for him, to return the other night’s courtesy and balance the scales between them) and talks some more. Focussing on recalling the details is a welcome distraction. By the time she finishes and he lays aside the pen, she’s feeling more herself again.

He asked questions throughout, here and there, clarification or confirmation. Now that they’re finished, he stacks up the notes and rolls out a map onto the desk. It’s clear he’s matching names to places, doubtless revising plans he and Tréville have already made as he fits this new information into them, and the immediacy of this hits her abruptly like a punch to the gut. How easy to forget, deep in the challenge of her work, _why_ she’s doing all of it.

“How soon?”

He doesn’t ask for clarification; even after everything (or perhaps because of it) they read each other well enough to fill in the gaps. “Eleven days.”

She’d known this wouldn’t last. From the moment she’d heard about the war, she’d known, and even before, she knew that duty -- to everything except his wife, it seemed -- was his first calling. She just hadn’t realised (though she’d known, would have been a fool not to) that it would be quite so soon.

“If you die over there,” she says, with sudden vehemence, “then I’ll _kill_ you.”

His answering smile, just the barest uptick of the corners of his mouth, hovers somewhere between mocking and sad. “Would it help if I promised to haunt you as you did me those five years?”

She’s across the room almost without realising she’s moved, forcing her way into the small gap between his legs and the desk, hands slamming down onto the high back of the chair as she looms over him. “Not as a ghost, _husband_ ,” she hisses, and the intensity of emotion welling up inside threatens to break her -- ‘the world was diminished’ seems so inadequate now. “You come back, understand? Or --”

He yanks -- hands rising to her waist, tugging her forward to him, and it’s as if all of the emotion between them coalesces into this moment. The kiss is hard, almost brutal, teeth clashing and mouths devouring, the hunger from the false embrace in the alley meeting sudden despair at the thought of losing him meeting the tension that's built up in their interactions over the past few months, all the love and the hate they circle around eternally but don't (can't? won't?) acknowledge. Her hands clutch at his shoulders, hard enough that her nails bite into the leather, would tear flesh if not for the doublet in the way. When they come apart, moments or hours later, they’re both breathing hard.

“You told me not to make promises I can’t keep.” His voice, in contrast to the violent demand of the kiss, is soft, little more than a breath against lips bruised and tender.

She closes her eyes, rests her brow against his. “Keep this one.” Because she's laid so many of her truths bare to him recently, but some truths run deeper -- and the truth is that without him, there would be an emptiness in her world that she’s not sure she could ever fill, is certain she wouldn't _want_ to fill. Especially not now that she’s beginning to believe in second chances.

“Anne,” is all he murmurs in response, more question than answer. When she doesn’t say anything he lifts one hand, fingers curling over the back of her neck. His touch is warm but makes her shiver a little all the same, especially when it grazes the edge of the broad ribbon and the scars beneath.

"You would never have gone with me to England," she says finally, instead of the impossible admissions that crowd her tongue.

He sighs. "No."

"Because this is the life you want now."

He's quiet for a long moment, fingers continuing to stroke almost absently. When he speaks again, it's not what she expected. "It would have been enough, once."

Her eyes open in surprise at his words. He's looking at her, and while there's something in his gaze that reminds her vividly of those sunlit days of their marriage, there's a sadness there as well, and something else she can't quite decipher.

"Enough doesn't mean it's what you want."

"It was all I thought I deserved -- more, some days. When I believed you dead, then when I believed you an unrepentant demon, and especially when I believed all that had transpired was my fault."

She looks away -- straightens up again and fixes her eyes on the exposed beams of the wall behind him, unable to bear the intensity of his focus in this moment, unwilling to move away. His hand falls back to her waist, joins the one already there, and she swears she can feel its heat burning through all the layers fabric, skirts and bodice and corset and chemise. "How very arrogant of you." Her voice is brittle even to her own ears. He doesn't argue.

Somewhere outside, echoing through the city, the bells ring Matins. When the last note fades, she murmurs, "I should go." She wants to do nothing of the sort (she wants to run away until her heart is silent and her head is clear), but it's growing late and there are things she should be attending to.

He releases her and stands, and though he pushes the chair back out of his way as he rises they're still far too close together. "They may be watching for you. And after what happened earlier, it would look odd if you did not stay the night."

There's not much she can say to that, because as loathe as she is to admit it he's right; to go back to her rented room now would be asking for trouble and expose her act. But he's still too damned close, and she won't retreat, doesn't dare let herself show weakness, necessary habit too deeply ingrained through the years. It's a relief when he moves away to clear off the table again, rolling up the map and stowing it and tonight's notes. "Should I be worried about d'Artagnan barging in tomorrow morning to accuse me of besmirching your virtue?" she asks, taking refuge in sarcasm.

The glance Athos shoots her way is momentarily arch, as if to ask whether she intends to do just that, but it passes as his mouth twitches in a smile. "If all is well, he and Porthos are nearly at Douai. I hardly think you need to worry about them galloping back just to defend my nonexistent virtue."

"Ah." Suddenly the absence of sardonic comments upon their return makes more sense. But it does take a possible argument against this away from her, and so she just shrugs. "Be it on your head, then. I won't apologise for stealing the blankets."

His eyes widen at that, almost comically darting towards the settle and then back to her. "I thought --"

She huffs out a laugh, rolls her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous. You'll be marching off to bed down under hedgerows and on rocky ground soon enough. If you're going to come back in one piece then you'll do better for getting sleep while you can. I can take that."

Athos looks at her for a long, silent moment. With the candle behind him his face is mostly in shadow; she finds she cannot guess at his thoughts. Finally he turns back to the desk, closing the last drawer. "We can share."

The offer comes as a surprise. When she does not reply, he inclines his head to the door at the back of the office. "I'll be back once I've checked on the night watch," is all he says before heading out the other door. The sound of his boots as he descends the steps fades shortly after, and she shakes herself out of her stupor and sets about readying herself for sleep.

~ * ~

His words aren't a lie; he does check in with the men standing watch, making a point of speaking briefly with each of them. But that's not his only reason for stepping out. Even if this is just for the sake of their masquerade (and it's not; he can admit that in his own thoughts, just for a moment), knowing it's necessary doesn't make things any less awkward. Giving them both a little space to collect themselves will help.

The night is cool, just edging into chilly, with the sky clear and cloudless overhead. By the time he finishes his rounds he's wishing he'd taken his cloak with him, but it's worth a little discomfort; he's trying to get to know these men that are now his better, regretting too many days spent inside a bottle, and every small exchange is a step in the right direction.

"Good watch, Durand," he tells the shift lead after he finishes, making his way back across the yard.

The older man salutes crisply -- he's not sure if it's having a new captain or preparing for war, but the formalities seem more pronounced these days. "Good night, sir."

The candle is still on the desk when he enters, the door to the bedroom ajar. He retrieves it on his way, cupping a hand around the flame to steady it as it flickers. Anne's stripped down to her shift in his absence, her clothes neatly folded and laid atop his trunk; she's sitting on the edge of the bed, intently braiding her hair. Her eyes flick up to meet his when he closes the door. "All quiet?"

He hums agreement as he sets the candle down on the bedside table.

"Good." Her finger continue to work, pale against the dark curls, and he watches mesmerised for a moment longer before turning his attention to his own preparations.

There's something ridiculously domestic about this, even when he's all too aware it's business. In the absence of the night's deception they might have tumbled into his bed briefly to relieve tension, but to sleep beside someone is far more intimate than bedding them. They've done both, he and she, but not since they fractured; he can't help thinking that of the two possibilities this one will be infinitely more difficult.

He works the last buttons on his doublet free as he considers the situation. It would have been distressingly easy to pull her down onto his lap when they'd kissed before -- to let the passion and the anguish and the raw need bring them to that sort of culmination. It would have been a catharsis, doubtless; it might even have been pleasant, if such a pedestrian word can ever be applied to their interactions. And yet it would ultimately have been a physical act alone, signifying nothing, because fucking does not require trust. To sleep at someone's side, to be vulnerable like that, exposes more than all their conversations and kisses and arguments and threats up to now have done. They'll manage; they're both pragmatic. It just makes him wonder if perhaps the settle, hard as it is, might not be more comfortable after all.

There's a rustle of fabric behind him; when he turns, leaning against the wall to take off his boots, she's slid beneath the blankets. There's a knife in her hand, the slim blade he's seen her with more than once, but it's still in its sheath and as he watches she slides it between the bed and the wall, within easy reach. When she sees where his eyes rest, she gives an inelegant snort. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd have done it by now."

"I know." Simple words, and yet no less true; they've both had ample opportunity to kill each other, to destroy the other's life time and time again. That they haven't speaks more clearly of what lies between them than words hurled, wielded like blades and armour both.

She doesn't reply; her expression, as she burrows under the covers, is if anything nonplussed. He's in no mood to push and so he finishes getting ready in silence, strips down to linen drawers and shirt, arranges sword and pistol on the floor beside the bed -- like her, like any good soldier, he doesn't sleep without weapons to hand. The candle is mostly a pool of wax now but he blows it out all the same, plunging the room into darkness.

Her breathing is soft and even in slumber, her features -- what he can see of them in the moonlight filtering past the shutters -- unguarded in repose; it's easy like this to see the girl he'd married rather than the woman he hated (hates? that word feels too strong now), but such distinctions are too glibly easy. She's both, and more, just as he is the naïve Comte de la Fère and the embittered musketeer and other things besides. And yet ...

"I wouldn't have gone with you," he tells his sleeping wife as he finally slips under the blankets. The words are little more than a breath in the hushed darkness of his bedchamber. "But I would have asked you to stay."

She mumbles something hazy and indistinct and rolls away from him, turning to the wall. Athos sighs, shifts to get a little more comfortable, and lets sleep overtake him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between problems wrangling things and [Milathos Appreciation Week](http://allformilathos.tumblr.com/post/115613322339/the-much-anticipated-milathos-appreciation-week-is) ficlets on Tumblr, the next part may take a bit longer than things have so far -- hopefully the extra length will make up for it somewhat?  
> In the meantime, as always, you can find me on [Tumblr](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/).


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up in a LOT of discarded conversational drafts (and much swearing and flailing at my poor partner in crime -- bless you, D, for putting up with my babble for a show you don't even watch), but I'm ultimately happy with where it went.

Anne wakes first.

For a moment, she’s utterly disoriented. It’s hardly the first time she’s woken in a strange bed, but this is alien and familiar all at once, and the confusion of conflicting stimuli leaves her frozen. As she filters through everything, catalogues sound and smell and sight, she relaxes again, fingers uncurling from the hilt of her dagger.

She’s at the Musketeers’ garrison, sharing a bed with her husband for the first time in seven years. Athos sleeps with his back to her, and the gap still between them even in this narrow space speaks volumes. Unsure of how to react she just lies there, listening to the rain overhead and the steady sound of his breathing.

When he’d pointed out that she really should stay the night, she’d acknowledged that it was a necessary next step in the evening’s sham, even if she’d wanted nothing more than to leave and sort out her emotions in private. When he’d suggested that they share the bed when they had both tried to defer, it had shocked her -- gentleman or not, she’d not expected the trust his offer implied. They’ve given each other a measure of trust so far, but only in matters of business, remote and dispassionate. She’s not enough of a fool to believe that kiss changed anything. So what had prompted that?

She’s even less sure where they stand than she was at this time yesterday. It’s maddening.

Part of her wishes she could leave now, slip out before he wakes and they have to confront what lies between them -- because yesterday _did_ change things, no matter how she might wish to pretend otherwise. But she’s too proud to run (wouldn’t even if she thought she could, the idea that flight is weakness too deeply ingrained), and anyway, he’d almost certainly wake up if she moved. Her husband of old would not have, but the man who lies beside her now is a soldier.

It’s hard to tell the hour, with the clouds distorting what light filters into his room, but she thinks it’s still several hours to noon. Too restless now that she’s fully awake, she tries to occupy her mind with calculating the time for letters to reach Spain and what disinformation she can seed before the army arrives at the border (she has little doubt Tréville will have more concrete notions later today), but that diversion only holds for so long. Her thoughts turn to the ramifications of last night, not for them (she does not dare think of that, now that she knows how little time is left) but for the game she’s engaged in. She’s playing at sympathies for the Spanish, which means it would look strange for her to fall into bed with the Musketeer captain, unless … well. He won’t like that, and his brothers in arms will appreciate it even less, but there’s no other way for her to do her job while explaining this away -- and they’re both bound by what must be done.

He stirs when she finally sits up (not trying for silence, knowing that would register more alarmingly than normal motion), rolls onto his back with a vaguely disgruntled sound. His arm, outflung, brushes against her leg and his eyes crack open to focus on her. “Anne?”

“Go back to sleep.” She slides out of bed -- or starts to, but he catches her wrist as she moves. It takes all of her self-control not to flinch or tear herself free; as it is, she still draws her hand away as she settles onto the foot of the bed. “What is it?”

His gaze drops briefly to her arm before moving back to her face. The quiet comprehension that dawns there almost undoes her, but all he says is, “We need to talk.”

She doesn’t want to -- she wants to cling to this false domesticity as long as she can, this imagined warmth, but since the chateau de la Fère she has not allowed herself the luxury of false hope. Reality is cold and stark and painful, but to watch dreams break is worse. And so she just looks back at him steadily. “We do.”

“We owe each other the truth.”

It’s not what she expected. She studies him intently, trying to figure out what he’s reaching for. “I’ve given you the truth.”

“I don’t mean what happened that day. I heard what you told Catherine.” Unspoken, that he believes it now. She wishes she didn’t care, even as warmth blossoms in her chest. “You told d’Artagnan that you were a pickpocket and a thief before we met. Is it any wonder I believed -- believe -- I married a shadow and loved an illusion?”

The words could have been plaintive. If they had been, she might well have shoved him away, stalked out of here. But they are nothing more than a statement of fact, a sadness for what is one more step widening the gulf between them.

“Athos --”

“Was our meeting deliberate?”

“No!” The single syllable bursts from her without thought, and she realises a moment later what he’s really asking -- whether she’d set out deliberately to ensnare him. At her reply, the tightness in his jaw eases; she hadn’t known how much he’d feared that, but it’s plain now. She twists her hands in the blankets draped across her knees, tries to fit the words together -- a problem she’s never had with anyone except him. “What do you want me to tell you? That I grew up on the streets as a pickpocket and a thief and a whore? Because I did. When you have nothing, you learn to do what you must to survive.” She knows the words are hard, but they’re the truth she knows. If he doesn’t realise it, especially after some of those he’s been around, then he’s not the man she thought he was. “You were a nobleman, but you were also the first person I met who looked at me as something other than a thing they could use or the scum beneath their feet. It made me think I could be something else. It made me _want_ to be something else.”

He digests that in silence, and she says nothing more, waiting. The rain drips down outside, drums softly against the roof. No one has come looking for their captain just yet. It’s almost peaceful, except for the tension humming in her veins.

“The way you looked at me, that day,” she says, when it stretches too long, “was the reason I never told you. You were the first good thing I’d known in years, and I was certain the truth would destroy it and you’d prove to be the same as the rest of them.”

“You weren’t entirely wrong.”

Just not in the way she’d imagined. “I know.” And, when they lapse into silence again, “Why now?”  
“Is there likely to be a better time?” He pushes into a seated position, back to the wall and legs stretched out before him, and now the entire length of his bed swims vast and open between them. "We're long overdue for clearing the air."

She laughs; there is no humour in the sound. “I burned your home down to destroy the past, and it solved nothing. Do you really think what lies between us can ever be settled?”

“I have to. If not, you were right and neither of us will ever know peace until the grave, and I refuse to accept that.” His eyes are very blue in the dimness, intent on hers.

She grimaces but shifts forward anyway, closing a little of the space between them as she retrieves her pillow. Only when it's cushioning her body against the wooden wall and the blankets are tucked securely around her again does she look back at him. "Alright. Talk."

~ * ~

They’re neither of them open people, and the conversation is difficult at best. More than once, Athos finds himself wondering how long it’ll be before one of the musketeers dares to look in to make sure no one’s dead (and debating whether to be grateful Porthos and d'Artagnan are away or to wish they were here to interrupt). There are moments where emotions flare high, one or both of them yelling -- at one point he’s convinced she’ll stick that slender dagger of hers between his ribs, at another his fingers itch for his own blade -- but perhaps cognisant of where they are or how much time they have, they always subside before things go irrevocably far. And when they finally both fall silent a long time later, spent in the wake of accusations and invective and a few surreptitious tears, he reaches across the space between them -- smaller than when this had begun -- to lay his hand atop hers. “I’ll come back,” he swears, quiet in the stillness.

It’s clear, as her eyes dart up to meet his, that she’s thinking of the conversation last night and not making promises that can’t be kept. But he means to, for both of them.

“Good,” she finally says, and the words may be sharp but her face is soft. “I’d hate to have to hunt you down just to kill you.”

Whatever either of them might have said next is forestalled by the somewhat-muffled sound of the outer door opening, then closing as the sound of booted feet crossing the other room becomes plain. They spring apart, to reach for weapons rather than like guilty youngsters caught in the act, only for Anne to relax first with a dry little laugh. “Tréville,” she explains, just as he recognises the sound in turn and reaches for his breeches rather than his pistol.

“Dauvet was half-convinced you’d murdered each other,” comes the voice through the door, naming one of the young cadets who was on guard duty this morning. He’s not even trying to hide his amusement “I hope I don’t need to find a new captain already.”

Athos finishes hurriedly lacing his breeches closed, rakes a hand through his hair. It's no worse a state than Tréville’s seen him in before, and so he collects the rest of his clothes and slips out, closing the door behind him to give Anne a chance to dress in privacy. The older man’s waiting by the desk; he shakes his head as he takes in Athos’ somewhat disheveled appearance.

“Rough morning?”

“We had a lot to talk about.” At the concerned frown, he adds, “It’s better. And it was a late night before that.” Reaching past, he pulls the notes out and hands them over. “Here. Anne should be out by the time you have questions.”

Tréville sinks into one chair, reading in silence only occasionally punctuated by oaths. He takes the other, pulls on hose and boots before starting on the buttons of his doublet. Anne emerges just as he’s finishing, looking entirely too composed, and he hates her a little for that, and a little more when she perches on the desk near him. When Tréville finally looks up, her brows lift in a wordless prompting.

“Better than I thought,” he concedes, setting the papers down. “Some changes in travel plans and a few counters taken and we’ll be in better shape. I was afraid Richelieu’s network had either fallen apart entirely or that Rochefort had taken control.”

“He had part,” she says with a little shrug that he recognises well, the one that means she’s downplaying something, “but that’s fixed easily enough now that he’s dead. It'll take money, minister, but manageable amounts."

The older man grimaces but nods all the same; he has, since the cardinal's death, become far more grimly pragmatic. "Just keep track of your accounts."

By the time Tréville leaves almost two hours later, with a pointed reminder that Athos is due at the palace a little later, he’s beginning to seriously regret letting Porthos and d’Artagnan go off to Douai -- or at least letting both go (or not going with them, though that was never an option). He’d not realised how much of a difference they made to preserving a sense of balance and normalcy in his life. Captaining is an honour and a trust he’s not about to let down, Anne’s return an unexpected gift, but both have been more emotionally taxing than he’d imagined possible, and he finds he needs something uncomplicated, familiar.

When he turns back he finds her watching him, cool assessment not entirely masking the concern in her eyes. She doesn’t mention it, though, for which he's grateful, just stop before him. “It would be easier,” she says, and the words are slow, carefully chosen, “if we could reconcile enough in appearances to do this again. If it seems that I am playing my husband for information, no one will question its veracity.”

He looks down at her, that face strange and familiar and hated and beloved all at once, and asks a question he already knows the answer to, because he needs to know what she’ll tell him -- because that will say far more than the words themselves. “Is that what this was all about?” After last night, after this morning, he’s certain it’s not, but he doesn’t understand _why_ , even now.

Anger flares in her green eyes -- anger and a little hurt, quickly masked. “Idiot,” she snaps. “Why would I have come back, if not for you?”

It’s his turn to reach for her, taking her face in his hands, brushing his thumbs across her cheeks. _For yourself,_ he doesn't say, _for us,_ but to give voice to any of that would be to argue semantics and lead them nowhere useful. “You’d have hated England,” he says instead before he kisses her -- gently this time, full of all the promises he cannot make and dares not even think of. Her hands tremble against his chest, unexpected vulnerability.

“Go safely,” he murmurs when they come apart, and she smiles -- not her usual smirk, but a softly reminiscent curve of lip he thinks may be just for him.

“Until tomorrow night, then.”

This isn’t going to be easy, he thinks, once she’s left and he begins to check in with the men, but he’d known that from the moment she’d returned. But it just might be worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a confession: when I wrote the very first bit of this on Tumblr, I had no intentions of making it longer. When I started it here, I really didn't have a sense of where it was going to go -- there was the endpoint (war), but that was it. It's finally getting to that state where I think I know what happens between here and the end, and what the end is (and I've even got fragments scribbled out), but who knows how much that'll change on the way?
> 
> Thank you to everyone who leaves kudos and comments -- you guys make all those pages of nope and frustrated texts worth it ten times over and I love each and every one of you.
> 
> As always, you can find me [on Tumblr](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/).


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos on the last chapter, guys -- those are the best warm fuzzies. <3
> 
> This one feels a little different ... for better or worse. XD But it seemed like the interactions fit while writing, so there you are.

True to her word, she returns the following night. It’s been a busy thirty-six hours, trying to find who spied on them the other night along with everything else she’s been doing, and the accompanying lack of sleep (just a scant hour snatched in her rented room across town) has her yawning by the time she makes her way up the stairs. Athos just shakes his head when he sees her, mutters something about people not knowing their limits (really, as if he’s any better) and packs her off to bed rather unceremoniously. She hardly stirs when he slips in beside her some time later.

She sleeps better here, as foolish as it is, but it’s familiar -- or rather _he_ is, even after all those years -- and familiarity means she can breathe a little more easily, and just because she’s used to starting awake at the slightest unusual sound doesn’t mean she enjoys it. Things between them are still unsettled, may always be, but even before this tentative truce of theirs she’d still have trusted him not to knife her in her sleep.

When she wakes the next morning, feeling rested enough to be more herself, it’s to find him watching her, a softness she remembers from the early days of their marriage there in his eyes before he blinks and it’s largely subsumed by Athos the Captain. “Good morning,” he says as he sits up, though, and that’s a far enough cry from how things had begun the other day that her smile is wholly unforced.

They dress in curiously comfortable silence at opposite ends of the room, break their fast together while delving into the news she hadn’t passed on last night. It’s an almost disgustingly domestic overlay to what shouldn’t be more than a business arrangement, one abruptly broken when a commotion outside erupts minutes later. Athos is on his feet in a flash, out the door with a hand going to his pistol; she follows closely, sees the tension evaporate from him moments later as a familiar laugh erupts below.

He is hastening down the stairs for wholly different reasons now, taking them two at a time, while she hangs back in the shadows of the porch as she identifies the three riders in the courtyard. Watching him embrace first Aramis and then the other two, it’s all too obvious how easy he is around them -- how much he’s missed these surrogate brothers of his. She quashes a pang of envy as she watches; that emotion is as foolish as it is misplaced here, and she knows it.

The quartet are talking over each other, oblivious to anything else even as a couple of youngsters come to lead the tired horses away. She takes advantage of the distraction to steal down the stairs and into the shadows between barracks and armoury, following a circuitous path to the gate to avoid intruding on their reunion. Besides, it’s early enough now that if she leaves she can accomplish a fair bit today. Another round of visits, this to a different set of contacts, perhaps a stop at Madame Arbaleste’s for some new --

She doesn’t make a sound as she backs into someone else while retreating, too well-trained for that. The other person does, though, a faint yelp of surprise that has her turning, eyebrows creeping up. “Madame Bon -- ah,” she catches herself, corrects, “Madame d’Artagnan.”

Constance just looks at her for a moment, silent and steady and assessing; her mouth is pursed in a frown more thoughtful than disapproving. “Going somewhere?”

It’s not the accusation she would have expected after all that’s passed between them, and that more than anything stops the reflexive sharp retort. She weighs her answer, glancing back at the courtyard for a moment as she does so. When she turns back to the woman in front of her, Constance’s frown has softened a little and there’s understanding in her eyes. “Let them have it out between them. They’ll probably be a while.”

The situation is making her realise, even now, how little she knows of Athos in this context -- how much he’s changed (for the better, ultimately) because of his friends. And so she gives a little shrug, as if it means nothing to her, though she’s well aware neither of them is fooled by it. “I’ve some errands,” she says, by way of an explanation.

Constance shifts her weight from one hip to the other and she registers, for the first time, the basket on her arm. “We can walk together.” It’s phrased as an offer, but the steel underneath suggests the younger woman doesn’t intend to take no for an answer.

She considers for a moment, thinks of time needed against what she can accomplish this eve, and shrugs again. “As you’d have it, then.”

~ * ~

“I’m glad you’re back,” he tells Aramis as the four of them head up to the captain’s office -- ostensibly for him to bring the others up to speed on the latest developments, but everyone knows it’s as much reunion as strategy session.

“Not for good,” Aramis says firmly. “The abbé agreed that, having not made even a novice’s vows, France has a prior claim to me in such a time, but it’s only a deferment until after the war.” There’s such a shadow in his eyes that Athos reaches out; at his touch, Aramis starts, offers him a smile that’s genuine, if apologetic. “As good as it is to be back with you all, my soul is torn.”

A glance at d’Artagnan and Porthos makes it clear this isn’t the first time the subject’s come up. It’s equally clear it’s awkward, fraught with unspoken meaning, and so he lets it drop -- he’ll ask the other two about it later. “You made better time than I expected,” he says instead, changing the subject. And look the worse for wear -- they must have pushed hard, to be back in three days rather than the four he’d stipulated.

“We agreed it was better to push on and get back sooner.” Porthos sprawls onto the settle with a groan, stretching out the kinks in his legs as he explains. “Figured you’d need the help, and didn’t want to give that fellow,” he jerks his chin in Aramis’ direction, “too much of a chance to reconsider.”

A knock interrupts, followed by one of Serge’s boys bringing up food. The other three fall upon it -- clearly their haste hadn’t included time for a proper breakfast -- but Athos just snags an apple, alternating bites with filling them in on the plans he and Tréville have drawn up over the past few days. It’s not until a lull in the conversation, with their compatriots arguing the merits of two different routes through the western Pyrénées, that he realises d’Artagnan is looking at him a little strangely.

“Constance told me _she’s_ been staying here,” he says quietly, with an emphasis that makes it plain who he means. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

Ah, so that’s the way of it. He wonders, remembering the younger man’s reservations over Anne’s mere presence (to say nothing of her involvement), if that played any part in the speed of their return. A year ago -- even six months ago -- it would have been more than fair. Now, though, the concern feels misplaced. “I’m sure it’s nothing of the sort,” he answers dryly, and means it, because if anyone can destroy who he is it will be Anne (because she matters more than she should, because she knows just how to cut him, because he cares for her more than he ought to, especially after everything, especially at a time when he can little afford to care), but he also doesn’t. There is more to life than wisdom, and it had taken these three (and Pinon, and Tréville, and _her_ ) to remind him of that.

The other two have stopped debating and are looking at them; Aramis cuts in, before d’Artagnan can continue, “Better question: are you sure about _her_?”

He looks between them -- takes in Aramis’ haunted dark eyes, the uncharacteristic solemnity of Porthos’ features, the worry tightening d’Artagnan’s shoulders. These are his brothers, he thinks, closer than blood, and their concern as well meant -- if, in this instance, misplaced. He’d thought about just that for days, even before she’d left, until finally realising it wasn’t his head that needed to answer but something more visceral. Small wonder the answer seems strange when he’s still getting accustomed to it himself. “Entirely.”

D’Artagnan’s still studying him as though he’s trying to work out a particularly difficult puzzle; when Athos’ brows lift, he shrugs. "I don’t pretend to understand. Even if it’s working now, though, with all she’s done I’m just waiting for her to turn her coat again."

Much to his surprise, it’s Porthos who speaks up. “Nah, it’s a good thing.” When all three of them stare at him in varying degrees of surprise, he continues, “You need somethin' going into a war to want to come back to. We’ve got plenty of reasons to fight, and having all of you there alongside’s a damned good one, but after matters too. Something that’s not part of it helps you keep alive. If sorting things out between you’s that for you, then that’s good enough for me.” The words are unexpectedly philosophical, make him wonder what Porthos has -- the other two are clearer (for all that he can’t decide if it’s god or queen that drives Aramis), but the dark man can be more reticent than Athos himself about personal matters at times. He looks at each of them in turn, grins that grin of his, grim and cheerful and a little bit mad and utterly _Porthos_. “And we’re all coming back alive,” he concludes, in a tone that brooks no discussion.

“All for one and one for all,” Aramis recites, but he’s smiling now as he lifts his tankard, and the shadows in his eyes have nearly receded. “I'll drink to that.”

~ * ~

She hadn’t intended to come back to the garrison that eve -- one night there and one away seems a good balance to allow for evening visits and investigations -- but between last night and this morning, she’s already behind, and it’s easier to head back there rather than to delay and send a message instead. The walk gives her time to clear her head as well, in a way her busy afternoon had not allowed for; by the time she and Constance had parted ways, it had been past noon and her head was awhirl. Tamping it down to focus on the task at hand was second nature, but with the last of Tréville’s disinformation spread, her mind goes back to worrying at the other woman’s words.

She doesn’t pretend to know why Constance reached out to her -- can’t even guess, when it would be far more reasonable for her to join her husband in not quite hiding a glare whenever he sees her. But Constance had been neutral, even guardedly friendly after a time, and when Anne had finally broken in frustrated perplexity and asked her _why_ , she’d just smiled. “Athos is my friend,” the younger woman had said, “and it’s clear you matter to him. So I’d like to find out who you are when you’re not trying to kill me or seducing d’Artagnan.” Her blue gaze had been flint-hard, a threat as plain as any she might have voiced. To Anne, who’d grown up with allies but never friends, it seemed -- still seems, even after reflection -- a strange thought.

Athos is out in yard when she arrives -- it’s more busy than she’s seen it in a while, pairs and small groups sparring and going through drills in the twilight. Her fingers itch towards her own blade, but though she’s learned enough of it this is not how she fights -- and even if it were, she could hardly join them. She just catches his eye instead, shakes her head in response to his concerned look (this is nothing that won’t keep until he’s done), and makes her way upstairs.

He comes in some time later -- she’s not sure how long it’s been, only that she’s nearly done with the manual she found on the bookshelf by then. When he tilts his head, unmistakable question, she just smiles and closes the slim volume. “‘Be sure, as death is, that your play comes not from courtesy against he who would shame you.’ Sound advice, I daresay.”

“It was meant to warn against fighting dishonourably,” he ripostes, settling into the other chair, “but perhaps I should take it as a warning if I ever face you instead.”

“Haven’t you already?”

The corners of his mouth quirk upwards, “‘You know your heart, not the enemy’s; never use such fantasy.’ I'd say neither of us is doing particularly well by Vadi’s measure.”

That silences her; do they know (or merely think they know) each other in that way? Sometimes, despite her bold words, she wonders. And yet neither of them seems to know their own heart some days, so perhaps it should come as little surprise.

“I wasn't sure you’d be back,” he is saying, though, and she snaps back to the present and focusses on him again.

“I still owe you that report.” It’s the truth, and he doesn’t push.

As is rapidly becoming habit, she rises to pace while she speaks and he sits, pen scratching across paper. This time he asks more questions, sends her down a few paths she’d not considered, and they end up speculating what the whispers of activity in Modena could mean, and whether Savoy will do as promised and come in with France after all. With all that, she’s ill-prepared for it when he changes the subject.

“What?”

“Constance told us you spent part of the day together. I think it was the palest I’ve seen d’Artagnan turn yet.”

Under the obvious amusement is a question, though, and she fishes for the right words. “It was -- interesting.” How else to describe it, when she still hasn’t worked it out herself?

Athos must hear something of that perplexity in her voice, or perhaps an answer she doesn’t understand or even realise yet herself, because he just nods as he gets to his feet. “Good.” He studies her for a long moment, and she thinks he’ll say something further, but in the end he reaches for the manual and slides it back onto the shelf. “Will you come to bed?”

It’s not as late as she’s accustomed to turning in, but she’s still worn out enough that an early night will be good, so she retrieves the candle from the table. “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Milady’s reading (and the book she and Athos quote from) is the [Liber de Arte Gladitoria Dimicandi](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.thearma.org%2FManuals%2FVadi.htm%23.VSwmJvnF_As&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNFNhy6mqT13QdtOh5u4DgXLopa2Tw), a late 15th century fencing manual by Filipo Vadi. It seemed like a good choice for the bookshelf of a Musketeer captain, and the lines felt apt. (It’s definitely not all that’s on there -- Athena suggested Greek tragedy and Vavia suggested Faust, so it seems i need to do more reading on the side … XD )
> 
> The twelve-chapter mark is an estimate from where I am right now, but I think it should be fairly accurate. If it keeps up at this rate, it will be hands down the longest thing I've ever ~~written~~ posted. (I think it already is.)
> 
> Still on [Tumblr](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/)!


	8. Chapter 8

Tréville sends a request for her to come meet him late the following eve. He doesn’t ask that she come unseen; they both know just how unnecessary that sort of admonishment would be. And so she spends her Sunday alone, grateful for the little space to breathe while she prepares, because as good as the last few days have been there’s a great deal she needs to sort out (and compartmentalise, if she’s to continue to do her job) and she has to do that alone.

Sitting on the bed of her rented room, she considers all that’s happened since her return. It’s overwhelming, when she realises it’s only been a week. From Tréville’s offer of a job to Constance’s overtures yesterday, so much has happened that she’d never really expected. It’s enough to make her believe, some moments, that she could have a home here in Paris, even without considering where she and Athos stand. And then she remembers that this may be over in the blink of an eye as well: all too soon the garrison will march for war, following the first wave of troops, and this idyll will end. What will be left for her then, of this? What will she have, in a city so tainted in her memories?

What, too, will happen to this strange new understanding that’s been developing between Athos and herself? In working together, now and to bring down Rochefort before, they have (she thinks -- _hopes_ ) begun to understand each other. The nights they have spent together, the accompanying conversations, even the arguments -- all speak of nascent trust. Will this coming war destroy everything they have started to build, even if it spares his life? (What will it do to her, in the meantime?)

She wants to curse, to rail at the unfairness of it all. She wants to swear at a god she doesn’t believe in for once again threatening to take away all of her hard-won happiness. But she’s never been the sort for empty deeds, and so she just gathers herself and her composure and heads out into the darkened streets.

This time, she gives her watcher the slip -- it’s easier without Athos there, and she knows this area well. When she emerges from the hidden passages into the office that is now Tréville’s, the minister looks up briefly from the letter he’s reading but seems unsurprised by her appearance, unannounced as it is. “A minute,” is all he says.

She distracts herself by prowling the edges of the room, studying the bookshelves. Amid tomes she recognises as Richelieu’s (doubtless left here from when it had been his office) and the expected histories she finds manuals by arms masters similar to those on Athos’ shelves at the garrison (were those his, then, or Tréville’s originally and just left behind?) and a few slim volumes of Greek verse. Before she can retrieve one of those, intrigued by how out of place they are, he puts aside the report and looks up. It’s an invitation and so she joins him, takes one of the chairs opposite, brows lifting expectantly. After all, if he’s the one who called her here then clearly he has something in mind.

“The cipher you’ve been using,” he says, once they’ve finished discussing the rumours she’s planting for him. “Can you draft up several others in the next few days? I’d like to have the couriers use them, which means I’d like Athos to have copies to take to the other commanders when he goes down.”

“I can.” Her reply is a little hesitant; she’s not entirely certain she knows where he’s going with this. “You’ll have a secretary trained on how to use them at this end?”

“I’ll have to find one.” He frowns, studies her. “Would you consider being involved?”

She can’t have heard him correctly. She can’t have. Surely her usefulness ends once his surety for her good behaviour, in the form of Athos, rides off south. “What are you asking?”

“Not courier duties,” he clarifies. “You’d be wasted on that. But we both know the secrets don’t stop just because there’s a war, and we both know it’s not something I’m good at -- I’d rather politics than this.” And they both know how much he dislikes politics.

She’s still at a loss, because it’s been a week she’s been in his employ, and even with what happened before, he’s got no reason to trust her. “I stood by and watched you get shot in the back, when I could have prevented it,” she reminds him. Tréville’s less likely than Athos to have illusions, for better or for worse, but right now she can’t help thinking that maybe he needs a reminder of what she is -- of what the man they both know trained her to be.

And yet he just smiles, that grim little smile of his that suggests he knows precisely what he’s doing. “Why?”

It’s quite possibly the last response she’d have expected. “Why?” she echoes. When he just nods, she settles for the truth, in the bluntest way possible. “Because if I’d intervened, Francesco would have known where my loyalties lay. Being an enigma meant a chance at more information.” And because she’d seen how the Spaniard had aimed, and judged it not the kind of shot intended to kill -- not immediately, at least. Tréville’s injury had been meant to sow confusion among the Musketeers, to delay them, not to destabilise the political structure in the same way the other deaths had. She’d weighed cost and benefit, as she had countless times before, and made her choice. (She hadn’t dare think, for more than a fleeting moment, what would happen if he did die and Athos found out about her inaction. Her instincts had said it wouldn’t happen, and she’d been trusting them long enough to take that leap.)

But Tréville’s still looking at her, still smiling just a little, and she very nearly gapes. “You trust me _because I almost let you get killed_?” It’s madness.

“I trust you,” he corrects, “because what I want you to do is to your own benefit. I think we both know that ending this war sooner, with Athos and others still alive, is in your own best interests.”

It’s not a point she can argue, and so she doesn’t even try. She just folds her arms, leaning back in her chair and fixing her full attention on him. “So what, then?”

“I want you to handle intelligence for me. I’m not cut out for what either Rochefort or Richelieu did with it, and I’m not fool enough not to recognise that. I’m also not enough of a fool to waste talent when I see it.”

It takes the wind out of her sails, because he’s right -- not just that he’s not cut out for this, and not just that doing something like that would benefit her as much as it would him and France and all the rest. And she’s more intrigued than she wants to admit; it’s a challenge, the sort of thing she’s never really handled before because Richelieu seldom let anyone else manage even a small part of his network. Her mind is suddenly abuzz with possibilities, angles and venues she’ll need to explore, old contacts to reconnect with. To her surprise, she _wants_ to do this.

“You’re still mad,” she says, and she’s smiling despite herself, “but I’ll do it.”

~ * ~

“You’ve got that look on your face again.”

He parries easily, waits for Porthos to strike again. “What look?”

“The one where you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders. Usually comes with worrying about things you can’t control.” Another thrust, followed by a swipe from his main gauche, brings Porthos close. Dark eyes, darker with concern, meet his before the other man pushes back out of reach. “Not things between you and Anne, is it?”

Athos grunts noncommittally, pivots to keep his blade between them. “We’re fine,” he says, surprised by the fact that it’s true. Even with their arguments, things between him and Anne are better than they’ve been since the early days of their marriage -- possibly ever, knowing there are no lies clouding things now. Even when there are problems, they’re talking. It gives him hope for that part of his life.

“Good.” The rumbling approval surprises him enough for Porthos to score a touch. He’s still not accustomed to the idea that his friends might accept her -- but between recent events and her rescue of Aramis, Anne seems to at least have won Porthos over. “Then what is it?”

He doesn’t reply at first, shifting to the attack in order to stall. Their blades clash as he drives the other man across the yard, keeping him off-balance. It looks like he’ll win until Porthos abandons all pretence of fair play and bashes him in the shoulder with his guard. The blow’s pulled, but even so Athos winces and almost drops his blade; as it is, he ends up on one knee, sword at his throat. “I yield, you damned cheat,” he concedes, to Porthos’ hearty laughter and a scattering of applause and cheers around them.

“Captain needs a break,” Porthos announces, and all but hauls him up the stairs. Below, the drills and sparring matches pick up with renewed energy. While he ducks inside Athos sheathes his blades; his hands are free by the time the other man returns and he accepts the proffered mug. Porthos raises his own in toast. “To friends.”

Athos lifts a brow but taps his mug against Porthos’ all the same. “To friends,” he echoes, “though they be the death of us.”

They stand in silence for a time, watching, before he finally cedes. He knows Porthos won’t push, but the other man can be as immovable as a rock, silent and stubbornly present and waiting until others break. “It feels wrong, getting ready to leave without Captain Tréville.”

He doesn’t doubt that Porthos understands. Tréville has been like a father to so many of them, and even if they’re grown men there’s something of leaving the nest unfledged to all of this, especially for him. But Porthos just looks over at him, and there’s genuine concern under the humour. “Worried you aren’t going to be enough?”

“I don’t have a particularly good track record when it comes to leadership.” Athos tries to keep the words self-deprecating but both can clearly hear the undertone of very real worry.

“Maybe you weren’t cut out for lording,” his tone suggests he disagrees, “but being captain’s different. You know how to do that. Part strategy, part leading, part being a friend. You don’t see it because you’re so busy thinking you’re not good enough, Athos, but you already have it. Why would Tréville have named you to the post if the men didn’t respect you -- and why would they respect you if you weren’t cut out for it?”

“Why would -- I’ve been a drunken failure for most of the time they’ve known me. It’s what I was when Tréville pulled me out of a winesink and slapped a commission on me, and it’s what I go back to every time I can’t manage. Tell me how that earns respect.”

Dark eyes fix on him, solemn and fierce. “That’s what you _were_. You have bad days same as any man does, but that’s not the Athos here with me now. You pulled yourself out of that because you needed to -- because people needed you to. And we’re not about to let you go back, so stop feeling sorry for yourself and get your head on right, because we’re about to go to war and we damned well need our captain here with us.”

The words leave him stunned, caught off-guard by the vehement certainty of his brother’s words. And he thinks -- really _thinks_ \-- about what Porthos is saying, about how the men have reacted to his appointment and how many days he’s spent in the bottom of a barrel this past year, which have been shockingly few in the face of everything that happened. He’s had reasons not to crawl back into the wine-soft darkness: his brothers first and foremost, unexpected friendship with Constance, the trust he had somehow never realised Tréville was placing in him; even Pinon, hard as it had been to face, had given him a new understanding to build on, hope that he could be more than a lord who’d failed time and again. And now he has Anne, and this new hope for reconciliation, for building something afresh …

It’s all enough to make him hope, even on the eve of a war he dreads, that perhaps for once in his life he can succeed -- that something he touches won’t turn to ash in his hands.

Porthos is still looking at him, a smile nearly smug threatening to break free. Athos just rolls his eyes in good-humoured tolerance that fools neither of them. “Go ahead. Say it.”

“You’re an idiot, captain.” The other man is grinning now. “But you’re _our_ idiot, and there’s no one I’d rather have leading the Musketeers where we’re going. So you’d better get used to it, because there’s no way you’re getting out of this one. You’re stuck with the lot of us.”

“God help us all,” he mutters fervently, and Porthos laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My notes for this one included "Porthos is Common Sense Man!". I am far too easily amused.
> 
> (Next part should be up around the 28th/29th if I follow my plans. In the meantime, my askbox is always open on [Tumblr](http://myalchod.tumblr.com)!)


	9. Chapter 9

It’s well before dawn when Athos starts awake, unsure as to whether it’s because of noise or nightmare or something else altogether. What’s visible of the sky through the slats is barely lightening, and if it were not for the fact that he’s not at all tired (though he should be, by rights) he’d roll over and go back to sleep, but he knows that won’t do any good right now. Anne’s still asleep beside him, her breathing soft and even, her body curled in on itself. The sight of her face peaceful in slumber sparks memory, sharp and sweet and painful, and it’s suddenly more than he can handle and he slips from bed as quietly as he can.

The air is cool when he closes the office door behind himself and steps out onto the landing, and he pulls his cloak about himself as he gazes out at the empty yard below. In a week, this will be what the garrison normally looks like; it’s an unsettling thought to consider.

The hinge creaks softly as the door opens behind him, and Anne’s bare feet whisper across the planks as she joins him. He glances over, frowns apologetically. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He hadn’t been thinking clearly; if he had, he’d have realised his departure would surely awaken her.

She studies him for a moment in silence before asking, “What is it?”

Athos turns back to the yard, exhales, watching his breath ghost in the moonlight. “By this time next week, we’ll be on the road south. I didn’t realise how quickly everything was moving along.”

He’s not only talking about the approaching war, and they both know that. So much of what’s happening feels as if it has been dropped into some vastly accelerated frame, and yet it’s all been building long enough -- days, months, even years -- to still somehow feel natural. None of it is unexpected when he looks at the larger picture.

“What will you do, when we’ve gone?”

As changes of subject go it’s far from graceful, but she doesn’t push. “Tréville’s offered me a longer-term contract.” She gives him a slight smile, the edge of a taunt. “Looks like I’ll be watching your backs from afar.”

That surprises him less than it should; he knows full well that the captain -- _minister_ \-- has never been suited to espionage, detests it even as he acknowledges its necessity. Who else would Tréville ask, when she’s already been doing the work and has the familiarity? “Good.”

She blinks at him, evidently taken aback by the response, and he elaborates, “As much as I might prefer to know you’re safe, I’m not the kind of fool who’d expect you to sit idle during the war. And after everything, you’re the person I’d most trust to do this.” It’s not something he’d expected, when she’d galloped into the courtyard that evening, but the more he thinks about it the more it makes sense, just the culmination of something that’s been building ever since she came to them at the eclipse. How far they’ve come from the day when he’d sooner have trusted a snake at his back than her.

It’s her turn to look away, her mouth tight in a way it gets when she’s fighting down some emotion. When she finally speaks, it’s a flippant retort. “So you won’t tell d’Artagnan I intend to recruit Constance, then?”

Despite himself he laughs, quietly enough not to disrupt the changing of the watch. It’s a situation too easily plausible, making it easy to imagine his brother’s horror. “Don’t tell me if you’re serious. I’d rather not have to lie if he asks me someday whether I knew.”

She doesn’t say anything, though, and he sobers as the head of last night’s watch stops below them to give his report. The sky’s finally beginning to lighten but the air is still chilly, and beside him Anne shivers into her cloak as the young man leaves. Without a word, he opens the door behind them. It’s time for him to get ready to face the day.

He has an early meeting with Tréville, and so he leaves Anne curled up in the blankets with another of his books and heads out into the city as the sun is rising. Paris is waking around him, and as he walks through streets just coming to life he can’t help but wonder what they’ll look like in a month, let alone six or even two years. Wars hit hard at every level of society; he’s not so blind as to think that what happens on the border won’t be felt here, in ways deeper than just men going off to fight.

It’s a maudlin thought, but it’s enough to occupy him for the time it takes to get to Tréville’s office. The minister’s back is to him as he studies a map unrolled onto the immense table; without even turning, he says, “Come here and tell me what you think.”

The map’s peppered with wooden discs; he quickly recognises them as various units, French and Spanish both, placed at their last known locations. Tréville draws out several possibilities for initial stratagems while Athos listens in silence, absorbing it all. He’s seen war before, been involved a little, but his experience in strategy has been mostly limited to skirmishes and the books he’d read when younger. Listening to Tréville makes him realise how little he knows of war itself, let alone commanding in it, and while it should make him nervous he is nothing so much as determined now. He’s been given so much faith -- by his men, by his brothers, but his former captain -- that he has no other choice.

He may not know war firsthand, but he’s watched enough commanders to know that strategy can be adapted readily to scale, and that it’s ultimately about intuition, trust, and common sense. Those who will be alongside him have no shortage of that. It’s not just about faith received -- it’s about the faith he can give others, and he’s going into this with brothers beside him who he trusts with more than his life, with men he knows are capable and determined -- and with Tréville watching over them all from here. He’d told Anne earlier that he trusts her to watch their backs, and he means it. If war must happen, there are no others he’d rather face it with.

“You look better,” the older man says, when they pause several hours later. Pages have been sent to retrieve the other commanders still in Paris, and they’re taking advantage of the break to snatch a bite to eat. It’s bound to be a long day ahead.

Athos stretches out a knot in his shoulder, taking a moment to consider. He _feels_ better than he had when they last spoke, certainly better than when Tréville had first given him captaincy -- both yesterday’s conversation with Porthos and this morning’s one with Anne, as well as having Aramis back, have steadied him. This no longer feels like a trust he doesn’t deserve and will only inevitably fail. “I had some sense knocked into me,” is all he says in the end.

The fond humour in Tréville’s eyes makes it clear he understands.

~ * ~

There have been eyes on her every time she’s been out in the streets since the night she and Athos were followed, and while it’s hardly the first time she’s had to deal with that she hadn’t expected this degree of persistence -- had hoped her nights at the garrison might throw others off the scent. Someone knows what she’s been up to, though, or at least suspects. It’s proving more irksome than it ever had before, for all that she knows that letting them watch as she lays false information is more effective than permanently dealing with them would be.

She doesn’t bring it up to Athos, nor in the missives he passes on to Tréville for her; both men have plenty on their minds, and the last thing they need right now is her distracting them with matters they can’t control. The last thing _she_ needs is anyone hovering, and she doesn’t trust either (especially not Athos) not to try to protect her if they knew. She’s seen her husband’s tendency to overprotectiveness when it comes to women (even if she’s never been the recipient, for all that she might be the source), and it would do nothing but complicate matters for her.

And so she goes through her day, weaving a new layer to her web of rumours for the benefit of her shadow. Whoever it is, he (or she) is good -- she doesn’t get more than a glimpse out of the corner of her eye as she moves through the market square, pausing here and there to look at things and listen to the folk around her and occasionally buy some small item. The general chatter is mostly of the impending war, and mostly ambivalent; she makes a note to suggest that the royal family put in an appearance or two, to remind the common folk of why this is being done -- and why it should matter. She’s too cynical to believe it herself, but family is a good line.

Clever fingers touch her purse as she slips through the people clustered at the end of one of the aisles, pausing to watch the juggler. The brush is feather-light, but she’s well-familiar with that sort of contact from her own years on the street and before she’s consciously realised it her fingers have closed about a thin wrist.

_‘Damn,’_ she swears inwardly, as her brain catches up with her body. She’s certainly given herself away with this. But there’s no changing what’s done, and so she just locks eyes with the undersized waif before her. Wide dark eyes meet hers, darting around in sudden panic.

“Hush,” she commands, in a tone that brooks no argument. “I won’t turn you in -- this time. Just warn off the others.”

The girl nods so emphatically that Anne fears for a second her head might come off, but she snatches the proffered sou readily enough as she scampers off. Anne can only hope she’ll do as bidden, and that her watcher might have been distracted in that moment. But she’s never been the sort to believe in luck, and so her mind is already whirling with possibilities, ramifications, what she might be able to do with this.

For now, though, going to ground and reassessing seems the best option. She’s got reports from Bisset and a couple of her other contacts, and maybe with those sorted out she’ll have a better sense of which way to turn this next. Fighting the urge to finger the blade hidden in her skirts (and wishing fervently she’d brought a pistol, but it would have been so hard to conceal in the early morning damp when she’d left), she begins to make her way back to the garrison.

She doesn’t run. Even as a child, she’d learned to _never_ run, because fear made you reckless in the worst ways, and the predators of the streets could always smell fear. No matter that she’s more predator than prey now; old instincts die hard, and she won’t revert. But she moves with brisk purpose, keeping to the busier streets and slipping through the crowds, not trying to hide (because her shadow is good, frighteningly good, and that means hiding would benefit her little) but simply to stay where it would be too messy for the other to do something. It’s a gamble, but it’s the only one she can make right now.

As her path winds away from the riverside towards the garrison, however, the crowds thin out. She’s appreciated that in the past, but now she swears under her breath. Of course the streets would be empty when she needs them to be anything but.

“Milady de Winter.”

A man’s voice -- tenor, unfamiliar, just the barest hint of Spanish accent remaining. He’s there before her, an unremarkable figure in unremarkable clothing, but his eyes are sharp and canny and never settle on any one thing long. “Your presence here was not expected.”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” she returns. When he steps forward to intercept her she finally stops, several paces from him, and they study each other warily. What he calls himself hardly matters; she can put two and two together and come up with four readily enough. What’s important is why he’s here, why he’s following her, what he wants.

“Juan Sánchez.” It’s offered so readily it must (unsurprisingly) be an alias. “What brings you back to Paris, madame? Word had it you were off to less hostile climates.”

Does he know, Anne wonders, thinking of the body she’d left behind at Le Havre? Surely if he wanted to kill her he’d not have shown himself. Her mind is racing, her thoughts whirling, but she just smiles with a calm she doesn’t feel. “I realised I’d forgotten something here.” The glance she shoots off in the direction of the garrison weights otherwise innocuous words with implication. “And what of yourself? I should have thought a Spaniard would make himself scarce, on the eve of war.”

It’s his turn to smile. “I could hardly do that, when the king himself has sent me to convey his regards to his sister and her son.”

His words, too, are innocuous, but something in them makes her realise that this man _knows_ , and it chills her to the bone. The ramifications for France are tremendous, but she’s never cared about France -- what has France ever been to her? All she can think of is that this will destroy everything that was salvaged with Rochefort’s demise, and that it will surely break Aramis, and what that will do to Athos, and --

“I’m afraid,” she says, voice cool and even as she reaches into the folds of her skirt for her knife, “that will be impossible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Juan Sánchez is a combination of two fairly common Spanish names (according to passenger records from the 16th century -- thank you, SCA references yet again). Mostly the intent is to have a generic enough name that Anne's left going, “... really? You're not even trying.”
> 
> Still on [Tumblr](http://myalchod.tumblr.com). It's about all my brain can manage this week, it seems. XD


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So [ScoutLover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover) wrote a brilliant future-fic for this 'verse that you should all go read because it's awesome: [Home From the Wars](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3870430).

Wednesday afternoon finds the garrison busy: the men are running drills, and Athos can hear the sound of steel on steel ringing through the courtyard, punctuated by the deeper ring of one of Guyot’s journeymen hitting steel with hammer. He and the smith are just outside the armoury, finalising what needs to be completed over the next two days, when the sound of Porthos bellowing his name interrupts. He moves instinctively, before he’s even registered anything besides the concern in the syllables, and whatever he might have been prepared for rounding the corner of the smithy, the sight that greets him is certainly not it.

Anne’s leaning against Porthos just a few steps inside the gate. There is blood on her, fresh and wet and red, staining hands and skirt and the snowy linen of her chemise, and the twin blows of fear and memory have him nearly staggering. It’s fiercely visceral; for one moment he’s back in his childhood home, Thomas crumpled on the floor and Anne begging for him to listen --

He must say something aloud, because she focusses on him, green eyes still a little hazy, and grins. “You should see what he looks like,” she quips, but she’s paler than her shirt and he swears a blistering oath as he realises just how much of that blood must be hers.

“Damn you -- _Aramis_!”

Porthos mutters something that sounds suspiciously unpleasant and scoops Anne up unceremoniously in his arms, carrying her up the stairs to deposit her in one of the office chairs; she clutches her right arm with a sharply pained inhalation but makes no further sound. This chaos too is all too familiar, reminiscent of when Tréville had been shot not two months ago, only this time it’s a stab wound instead of a bullet (“not poisoned,” she mumbles, and Athos breathes a sigh of relief when Aramis confirms that), deep into her forearm. Aramis cleans the wound with detached thoroughness, the shallow gash that runs from shoulder nearly to elbow as well, before fetching needle and thread.

“No,” she says emphatically when he offers the flask of potent spirits he’d normally use to dull the pain. “Just give me something to bite down on instead. I’ve had worse.” She accepts the strip of leather Athos finds, and despite the obvious pain her gaze is now clear and almost frighteningly calm.

“Far be it from me to argue with a lady,” Aramis replies philosophically, intent on his preparations. It occurs to Athos that he should stay but he can’t, not when the sight of her in all that blood has woken such conflicting emotions. The room is too tight, too close, and he strides past them and pushes his way outside to escape its confines before it overwhelms him.

Outside on the landing, the door closed behind him and the sounds from below drowning out any noise that might pass through, it is easier to breathe, in air free of the metallic tang of blood mixed with that floral perfume of hers. Out here he can force his heart to slow, feels himself steadying once again. He’d never thought something like this might happen, for all that he knew intellectually the dangers of her work, but even more than that he hadn’t realised how raw and vivid that memory still was -- how it might affect him, let alone at a time like this. There’s guilt, shame, fear -- for her, and a little _of_ her, because that much blood means someone is dead and he doesn’t know how to handle the idea that she’s killed again. It makes him uncomfortably aware of how much he still doesn’t understand about her. It makes him wonder how much he ever will.

He’s still standing there trying to sort his head out when Porthos opens the door. Athos slides past him and back into the room, takes it in -- Aramis washing up, Anne still pale but steady as she sits, bandaged arm propped on the desk. “What happened?” he asks her.

“Someone tried to kill me.” A careless one-shouldered shrug. “I killed him first.”

“Anne --”

“He had information I wasn’t about to let leave France.” Her eyes are cool as they meet his. “We had a disagreement about it. Things escalated. He lost the argument. It’s that simple.”

It’s not, though. How she can be so calm about it -- both the injury and her actions -- is utterly beyond him. He’s a soldier, accustomed to dealing with death in honourable combat, and while he’s pragmatic enough to realise honour often has to be dispensed with, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to come to terms with some of what she does.

“You’re judging me,” she says, the words hard and flat. She’s withdrawing, Anne subsumed by Milady, has been almost since she staggered through the gate, and he doesn’t know what to believe, what to do.

“You killed someone.”

“It’s what soldiers do, isn’t it?”

The reply is so easy, so damned nonchalant, as if it’s an everyday occurrence. It sends a chill through him, a prickle of fear at the thought that maybe for her it is -- that Milady is the truth now and the Anne he’s been rediscovering is only the façade. He can’t handle that, not again -- not when he’s finally beginning to believe that he can be whole again, that they can both heal and move on, maybe even together --

“You’re not a soldier!”

The words all but explode from him, fear and fury he hadn’t realised had built to such levels. His hands have curled into fists at his sides as he struggles to calm himself. Vaguely, he’s aware that the other two have gone, leaving only himself and Anne and the ghosts of their past in a room that’s once again become stifling.

“And here I thought you’d be pleased that I’d done something for the good of France.” The words are biting now, bitter and sardonic. “There was _no choice_ , Athos -- sometimes there’s no other way. Death is the only end that guarantees silence. This was important enough, and I won’t apologise for making that decision.”

“I understand that.” His voice shakes with all the emotions he can’t quite contain. “What I don't understand is how you could do it so easily -- how you can still kill like that without remorse. I thought you changed."

Her face is pale, her eyes bright with fury, her entire body rigid and trembling. He hasn’t seen her this angry since he’d left her kneeling in the dirt -- since before her return to Paris. "I have," she spits, and the way she says it makes it sound like the most painful thing imaginable. "I killed him for the same reasons you kill -- to protect what I love. And if you can't understand that, then it would've been better if I _had_ left for England that day instead of coming back here!"

Too much. It’s too much, for his mind and his senses and what feels like an ever-more-chaotic tangle of emotions where she’s concerned. It’s clearly too much for her too, so it’s just a matter of which of them cedes first. They stand at an impasse for what feels like half of forever, eyes locked, bodies tense, before he’s the one who moves first -- strides into the bedroom, plucks a shirt from the chest to drop onto the table before her. “Get some rest,” he says, _just_ managing not to snap the words out (because he knows she’s balk at anything resembling an order, and as furious as he is he still worries).

“You --”

“Tréville’s paying you,” he reminds her, “and he would insist you listen to Aramis. Aramis would tell you you’re not going anywhere after losing that much blood. _Get some rest_.”

Her protest dies half-formed; she still looks blisteringly angry, but her fingers close around the linen. Not waiting to see if she complies, he leaves before he does anything he’s sure to regret.

~ * ~

She’s too raw right now, both from the physical pain and from their argument, to be around anyone (much less him), but as much as Anne wishes she were anywhere else right now, she’s no fool. Any boltholes she has are too far for her to get to in her current condition (and that’s without even considering how a woman covered in blood would be reacted to on the street -- something she'd managed to avoid by sheer luck while stumbling here in the first place), so as much as she wants to fling his orders in his face, she’ll do nothing of the sort. Besides, loathe as she is to admit it, she’ll sleep better for not having to worry about who might happen upon her while she recovers.

And so she doesn’t quite breathe a sigh of relief when the door closes behind Athos, but she does take a moment to consciously relax before heading into the back room and closing the door. She works at her laces slowly; it’s tough one-handed but hardly impossible, and she has time. Bodice, skirts, corset, petticoat -- her chemise is ruined where Aramis had cut the remains of one sleeve away, and she grimaces as she drops the bloodied garment on top of the pile. She’s honestly not sure anything besides her drawers can be salvaged today.

It’s not the first time she’s borrowed his clothes, even here; the recollection of his disgruntled expression the last time makes her smirk as she pulls the clean shirt on, careful of the bandages. She’s exhausted, blood loss compounded by their argument, and so she doesn’t try to do much more than crawl under the blankets and arrange herself so her injured arm is secure. She’s asleep almost before her head hits the pillow.

She starts awake some time later, eyes flying open and fingers reaching for her poinard. A moment later she realises it’s just Athos, rummaging in a second chest in the corner. He straightens up with an armload of blanket, answers her perplexed frown by jerking his chin at the bandages as though it explains everything. “I’ll sleep on the settle tonight.”

“Didn’t we go over the part where I’m not forcing you out of your own bed already?” She’s wide awake now, though the exhaustion still hovers at the fringes of her awareness.

“That was before you got yourself cut to ribbons.”

She pushes herself carefully into a seating position with her good arm, looking steadily at him. “If you can’t stand to be near me, then that’s fine; I’ll leave in the morning. Future reports can go to you in writing, or be made to whomever you want for the next few days until the garrison empties. But if you’re doing this out of some misplaced sense of chivalry, then don’t bother. With how we’ve managed to avoid getting too close during the night, I’m hardly concerned about you making my injuries worse.”

It’s hard to tell in the candlelight, but it seems like he flushes. She doesn’t miss the convulsive swallow, even in the shadow of his collar. “It’s not that,” he says, putting the folded blanket down on the chest. This isn't a victory, she thinks, even as she watches him sit to remove his boots, but it’s something. He’s intent on stripping down methodically -- boots, hose, working the buttons of his doublet free one by one with studious intensity -- and it’s almost enough to drive her mad but she waits, patient as the stalking alley cats she’d watched as a fascinated child a lifetime ago. When he’s ready, he’ll say more. And sure enough, when he’s down to shirt and breeches he stands, not to finish but to join her, stopping at the bedside.

“It never occurred to me that it might matter if I lost you again -- that I _could_ lose you again -- until Catherine tried to kill you." He looks down at her, gaze intense and shadowed and unreadable in that flickering light. "But it never occurred to me until today that death might not be the only way that could happen.”

She doesn’t understand, and she’s sure that confusion reflects on her face, because Athos reaches out, rests his fingertips oh so lightly against her chest, over her heart. She inhales sharply at the contact, which burns more than ought be possible for such a delicate touch. She doesn’t understand at first -- and then at his touch it’s as if the press of his fingers kindles awareness more than anything else, because then she does and she knows why he left before, and she hates him a little for it even as she loves him for that concern, even as she understands why it’s there.

Her chilled fingers curl around his hand, warming against his skin. It’s always been like that; she freezes in his absence, but whether he will burn her to ash again is a question only he can answer. “I have reasons not to let that happen.” Reasons beyond him too, because things have changed since she came back to Paris (this time, the last time, even the first time) and there’s more than a thread between them, however sturdy, holding her up now. He’s still the centre of it all, but things she never really understood before have started to make sense, one small gesture at a time.

He studies her searchingly, and there’s such hope in those blue eyes of his even with the pain and fear and worry that still tangle there, and to try to dispel that she leans forward to close the space between them. Her kiss is question rather than apology, for though she regrets what her actions today did to him she will never regret the actions themselves. She thinks, maybe, that he is beginning to understand the difference.

When he pulls away without comment, turning to finish getting ready, she wonders where she stepped wrong. In the end, though, he slips in beside her after dousing the candle and she lets out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. “Tell me,” he says; in the dark the words are intimate, close, plea rather than demand. Underneath them runs a deeper entreaty, unspoken: _make me believe_.

She reaches across the gap between them, rests the fingers of her bandaged arm against his and, with a halting start, tries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know those times where you've got two things written and you're not sure how you're getting from A to B? That was this chapter and chapter 7. XD
> 
> As always, my [Tumblr](http://myalchod.tumblr.com).


	11. Chapter 11

She wakes slowly, groggy and confused, aware that something has changed but unable to pinpoint what. Her arm aches fiercely, but she wasn’t lying yesterday; she _has_ had worse, and it's a pain she can isolate and largely put out of her mind, when she has more pressing matters demanding her attention.

Athos is nowhere in sight and his side of the bed has cooled -- not altogether surprising, when the angle of the light tells her she's slept late. He's left clothing for her, though, the breeches and buff coat she’d borrowed once before; she pulls them on carefully, wincing as she jostles her arm. She’s probably due for a change of bandages, which means finding Aramis, and she wants to talk to Athos as well. After the chaos of yesterday it’s clear things will be changed between them, but she’s not at all sure how and that frightens her more than she had realised it might.

She thinks -- hopes -- he understood what she’d struggled to explain last night. In some ways the pain muddling her wits had probably made it easier, but it also means her memory of the conversation is somewhat clouded. She remembers the warm anchor of his fingers twining through hers far more clearly than she does her own words, and he’d said little throughout.

And there’s other work to do as well, now that her head is once again clear. Who Sánchez actually was, where his information had come from, whether anyone else knew about it … She doubts there’s incontrovertible proof of the queen's infidelity, especially having watched Rochefort’s fruitless search, but that doesn’t mean anything -- manufactured evidence, as she well knows, can be just as dangerous; in a situation like this it’s often twice as deadly. It's also nothing she can act on now, especially not like this; those questions will be better answered in whispers, as easily through letters as in person. Which takes her back to finding Aramis and getting those bandages changed first.

She eyes her boots briefly before deeming them too much trouble and padding outside in bare feet. It’s midday, pleasantly warm, and the yard seems more sparse than usual. From up here, she can pick them all out: Athos and d’Artagnan sparring at the other end of the yard, Porthos bellowing orders at cadets doing drills, Aramis conversing with the quartermaster. There’s no need to interrupt, and so she just leans against the rail and watches in silence.

After several minutes of back and forth, Athos disarms the younger man. D’Artagnan goes down in the dirt laughing, accepts the extended hand to rise, retrieves his sword as the two start to animatedly discuss what happened. Watching, Anne feels her lips twitch slightly upward; she may not like it, but watching she understands Tréville’s choice. Right now, there is no one else who could lead these men.

Footsteps on the stair pull her back from her musings some time later; she looks over to see Aramis ascending them. “You look better,” he says, without preamble.

“Amazing what half a day asleep can do.”

“Be that as it may, you lost a fair amount of blood. No skulking in the shadows for you for the next few days -- better if it’s longer than that, though I doubt you’re any good at sitting idle.”

“Not very.” The concession is grudging. “But unless you tell me I can’t write, I think I’ll manage.”

He looks at her arm, the bandages invisible beneath her clothes, and then back at her with an expressive shrug. “Let me take a look at that and we’ll see,” he says, and holds the door open for her to precede him into the room. Inside, he busies himself with retrieving bandages and kit from the shelf, giving her a chance to strip off coat and arrange shirt so that he can get at the injuty. She watches him as he works, solemn face and intent dark eyes, both of them silent as he unwinds the bandages with a light touch. There’s something there in his features that she’d seen first when she freed him from the cell, well-masked but still present, that makes her wonder what’s amiss -- but she doesn’t know him in any meaningful way, and it’s not her place to push, even if she wants to discover what it is.

“You never said what information the man who attacked you had,” he remarks as he finishes the bandages at her shoulder and moves to those on her forearm.

“I didn’t,” she agrees, unsure of what he’s driving towards.

The dark eyes lift to hers, even more serious now. “Am I remiss to say I’m further in your debt?” And, when she only blinks at him, he explains, “You and Athos were rather loud in arguing. Porthos and I heard most of it, I’m afraid.” The words are light, but his expression is unchanged.

Ah. So he’d put two and two together. “Then you heard why I did it.”

He sets aside the second set of bandages, focussing once again on her arm. “I did,” he replies, almost absently, “and I understood, even if I don’t think he did. But both then and now that doesn’t mean I owe you any less.”

“I --” She breaks off to hiss as he gently touches the edges of the knife wound, bites her lip until he’s finished and the pain subsides before starting again. “If you make sure he takes care of himself during this war, the scales will be more than balanced. I’ll even watch out for yours while you’re away.” She will regardless -- it’s a rather important part of what Tréville’s contracted her for -- but the offer is an easy way to shift focus away from herself.

Aramis cedes to the diversion, perhaps realising that to pry might give her an opportunity to do the same; they are both, after all, well-acquainted with secrets and debts. He dabs a little ointment onto the shallower wounds in silence before wrapping a new set of bandages around her arm, and only then says, “I’m getting the better end of this deal, madame. You want me to defend my brother, which I would do regardless, in exchange for my life and that of --”

She cuts him off before he can say any more. “Just accept it with grace. I’m not usually so magnanimous.”

“As you’d have it.” He accords her a sweeping bow, a hint of genuine amusement lightening in his eyes briefly, before he returns to the bandages.

~ * ~

When he’s finished his meeting with Tréville and the king, and passed Anne’s latest reports on to the minister, Athos goes in search of the queen. He’s looking for Constance rather than for her, but at the same time she should be aware of what her brother’s doing -- and what he knows.

The guards admit him at the queen’s command; he finds her and Constance in the solar, seated on the floor with the dauphin playing between them, and the sight makes his chest tighten -- both for Aramis, who will never have a chance to truly know his son, and for his own missed chances. But there’s no time to dwell on either, and so he bows, perfectly proper even if no one’s watching. “Your Majesty. Madame d’Artagnan.”

Constance’s cheeks pink -- he knows she’s still getting used to happily married, life and isn’t about to miss a chance for a subtle tease, when she’s bound to be accustomed to that name by the time they return. The queen’s eyes brighten with fond mirth as she notices, though she’s equally proper as she looks up. “Captain.”

“There’s something you need to know.”

The solemnity must convey what the words might not, because she stops tickling her son’s feet and straightens. “Sit with us, then,” she says, “and tell me.”

He does, slowly and carefully, avoiding mention of where specifically the news had come from or what exactly was said. He can see Constance putting the pieces together, though, and the queen absorbing everything in thoughtful silence, and he’s fairly sure they’ll discuss it once he’s gone. He’s equally certain there will be a conversation between his wife and the queen in the near future, in light of everything, and the idea would almost amuse him if not for the seriousness of it all.

“Thank you for the report,” the queen says when he finishes. She’s pulled her son into her lap, cuddling him protectively close, and Athos spares a moment to pity anyone foolish enough to try to harm the dauphin. Women, he has learned through the years, are by far the more dangerous of the sexes.

“I also wondered,” he says, rising once more at the clear dismissal, “if I might borrow Madame d’Artagnan for the afternoon. There are some things I need to tend to that would benefit from a woman’s assistance.”

The look Constance gives him leaves no doubt as to whether d’Artagnan told her of yesterday’s events. “For your wife?” she asks. When he just nods, she glances over at the queen. “If you don’t mind …?”

“Go,” the other woman says with a smile, though her eyes are still deeply thoughtful. “You can explain what you’re both not talking about when you come back.”

Constance is largely quiet as they leave the palace, and though he can tell she’s holding her tongue he’s not sure what it is she’s keeping back. Once they're outside and on the street, though (he offers her his arm, because the habits he was trained to young are still deeply ingrained, and she hooks her fingers through his elbow with a little laugh), she only asks, “So what did you need my help with?”

“Anne’s corset is ruined,” he says, as though it’s an explanation, and while it’s perfectly true and he wants a woman’s help replacing it, it’s far from the only reason.

The way Constance’s blue eyes fix sharply on make it plain she realises that. “How is she?”

“Aramis thinks she'll be fine.” If she just sits idle long enough for it to heal. Not that she’s any better than he is at that sort of thing; Aramis had also made a pointed comment about how they deserved each other in that respect.

She nods at that, squeezes his arm in tacit reassurance, and they walk in silence the rest of the way. Anne’s lodgings are a fair distance from the palace, and he promised to collect her things as well. Constance exchanges occasional greetings as they encounter folk she knows, and Athos watches and is struck by how much more comfortable she is than when he’d first met her. Constance Bonacieux had never been what one might call shy or retiring, but Constance d’Artagnan is all of the stifled potential blossoming into fulfillment -- a woman assured, confidante to a queen, beloved by her husband, no longer held back by those closest to her. It makes him think, and not for the first time, about Anne’s bitterness when she’d spoken of the lack of choices she’d had as a woman, both before and after their marriage.

Not until they’re in Anne’s little room, gathering up her things (and there are far fewer of those than Athos had expected somehow, even once he's pulled hidden folios and weapons out of nooks and crannies), does he give voice to any of the thoughts that have been crowding his mind since they left the Louvre. “I’m sorry you and d’Artagnan won’t have more time before we leave.”

The glance she shoots him is surprised. “It’s never enough, no matter how long. But he’ll come back and we’ll have more time then. And you three are going to have to get used to the idea of being uncles, so you’d best come back as well.” When his eyes flick down to her stomach with not-entirely-suppressed alarm, she laughs. “Not yet -- but after the war is over, absolutely. I always wanted a family. A husband I love with all my heart is an excellent start, and brothers too. Just don’t take too long.”

He smiles despite himself, reaches out to squeeze her hand. Constance is one of those people who lightens a room and makes affection easy, and he’s glad of her presence in all their lives -- glad, too, that she’s reached out to Anne, because it gives him hope for that larger family she speaks of, born of bonds other than blood. “You’re better than he deserves.”

“At least he understands that!” Her eyes sparkle delightedly as she turns back to the pack she’s filling. “I’m going to miss you, Athos.”

“I”ll take care of him,” he says before she can ask, but she just looks up and shakes her head.

“I know you will -- and of Porthos and Aramis and all the others. But promise me you’ll take care of yourself too. You’re family now, and I want my family whole when this is done.”

She looks so serious, so emphatic, that all he can do is nod with absolute solemnity. “I will,” he says. Not just for her, but every reason is one more thing he can carry with him, to keep himself strong in the face of what is to come. He knows enough of war to want all the reasons he can get.

“Good,” she says briskly, folding the last of the garments and closing the pack over it before handing it to him. “Now, let’s go see that seamstress.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still on [Tumblr](http://myalchod.tumblr.com). And I think that's all I really have to say this time. >_>


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's definite: 13 chapters all in all, so just one more after this. ~~Let's not talk about the part where it's being the most uncooperative part to date. OF COURSE.~~

She’s not particularly thrilled about being stuck at the garrison, even less thrilled about her pretence unravelling -- because she’s not fool enough to think no one saw, and she’s fairly sure the murmurs on the street will mean she’ll have to work through proxies until her face has been sufficiently forgotten -- but she’s pragmatic enough to acknowledge the reasons even as she chafes at the enforced idleness. Forbidden the obvious diversion of sparring and limited in how much she’s allowed to write (or do much else with her arm), she resorts to alternating mapping out her network of contacts in her head (and assessing each of them in exhaustive detail) and working her way through Athos’ meagre bookshelf by turns. She has visitors -- Aramis regularly to check on her injuries, a curious Porthos (they have, she learns, commonalities born of childhood homes that go beyond the surface), Tréville once to hear her report in person -- but there are long stretches of the day when it’s just her.

If it were not for the war on the horizon, she thinks she could easily grow accustomed to part of this. The enforced idleness would drive her mad before long, already threatens to do so despite distractions and visitors, but it’s pleasant to spend almost-mundane evenings together with her (estranged? does the word still fit wherever it is they stand now?) husband, ensconced in one of the chairs or curled up on the settle, analysing news for Tréville and writing up her observations while Athos tends to his own papers at the desk. They seldom speak during these times, only occasionally asking for the other’s thoughts about something, but the silences have become comfortable rather than oppressive. If it were not for the war …

But today is Sunday, and with it this interlude draws to a close, and she can no longer pretend the impending war is a far-off thing. The Musketeers leave Paris tomorrow morn, and then she will be left -- not alone, because she will in the least have an employer who respects her, and Constance has made it plain that Anne’s stuck with her presence (not that she minds, to her surprise) -- without so much that she is only now regaining. It makes her want to lash out, to rail at the forces pulling them apart, and yet such an exercise in futility resolves nothing, and so she does not indulge in it no matter how much she may want to.

 _‘If,’_ she thinks bitterly. _‘If. And yet if not for this war, would we have ever reached this point?’_ Her life, all their lives, are forever maps of what is and what might have been, and this speculation serves no purpose either. If she wants to consider what-ifs, there are far better ones to dwell on.

Contacts, couriers, endless mental lists -- travel times from Paris to the Spanish border, to Madrid, to locations north and east, between ports. Alliances, rumours, ramifications -- these sorts of things have been her life’s blood for most of the past seven years, and still none of them hold her thoughts today. This waiting for an end so close is driving her mad, but she can afford that as little as she can anything else and forces her mind back on track. She will have time for thought later, when her bed is cold and lonely once again -- time to consider what has passed between them and the someday hope of more (for they have talked little of personal matters since the night of her injury, when she tried to explain to him about foundations and veneers and how she’s been nothing but street scum from the day she was born, and she doesn’t know if he understood any of what she’d tried to lay plain when she still can't quite find words for it, and if he had then what it means to him). For now her thoughts must be of what is needed. Any hope she has of that eventual future rests on that.

She reaches for another sheet of paper, starts on the first of the ciphers Tréville had asked for. It’s an exercise in discipline that serves well to pull her thoughts back into order, and by the time she finishes some fifteen minutes later, she feels clearer, more steady. By the time she’s finished the full set, it’s past midday. Tréville will be by later, so she doesn’t even need to find one of the men to run those out to the Louvre -- doesn’t even have that excuse as something to do in the meantime, and she’s back to the restlessness of before. The last thing she needs is time to sit idle and think.

The door pushes open before she can do more than consider using the far wall as a target (it’s been some time since she tried throwing knives, especially with her off-hand, but it’s something physical she can try to do without going into the yard where _someone_ would no doubt tattle). Constance stands there rather than one of the men she might have expected, and the little smile that pulls at her mouth suggests she knows just how tense Anne is. “You look like you’re contemplating murder.”

“Not yet.” She sets the knife on top of the stack of ciphers and studies the younger woman. “Are you here to make sure I stay put?”

That smirk blossoms into a full-blown smile as Constance, uninvited, sinks into the chair opposite and sets a basket of what appears to be mending down on the table. “Hardly. I figured that since you were a captive audience this would be an excellent time to bother you, though.”

It’s Anne’s turn for surprise. She knew Constance had teeth on her -- knew that well before their last conversation -- but this has her at a loss. “And what merits that now, of all times? I’d have thought you’d be spending time with your husband while you could.”

“Mine is with yours, making sure everything is in order -- I know better than to get in the way.” The retort comes without a missed beat. “This isn’t about them, but about what’s staying here in Paris. Athos delivered a report the other day about the spy. It made me realise just how very little I’ve managed to learn from d’Artagnan and the others.” She levels a steady look at Anne from across the table, suddenly entirely serious. “I want you to teach me.”

She should’ve seen this coming. In the months she’s watched Constance, she’s seen how the younger woman chafes at the role society imposes on her -- and yet she never expected this, even if she's jested about it. But she understands what it is to want more than the world will give; moreover, she knows the thrill of the hunt and the chase well, and how they can get into the blood and not leave. She knows (so well) what it can do, for good or ill. “Why?”

“So I can protect the people I care about.”

Very nearly the words she’d flung at Athos in this room scant days before, and yet spoken with calm certainty. Constance knows what she’ll be fighting for, while she’d had to lose everything to discover that truth for herself. Perhaps it’s better to come at it this way, with the certainty of lifting a blade in defence rather than to harm -- perhaps the manuals on Athos’ shelf are right and that makes all the difference. She doesn’t know, and she’s not sure even now she ever will.

But Constance isn't her, and she's already deep into this. And after all, Anne thinks with a smile, she's warned Athos. Jest it might have been, but all jests have some kernel of truth.

"I won't be an easy teacher," she warns, even as her mind begins to whirl with possibilities.

Constance grins, young and eager and yet no less determined. "I would expect no less."

~ * ~

_‘Tomorrow.’_ The thought has a finality to it Athos has never dwelt on before, but this is a situation he’s never faced before either. For years he’s avoided getting close to anyone, too raw to chance that, and while those wounds finally healing has been an unimaginable relief, it also makes him realise what he faces losing in the days ahead. Porthos and Aramis and d’Artagnan will be with him, their lives and those of the entire company in his charge, and he acknowledges the inevitability of deaths there and how his heart will surely bleed (but not for his brothers, please god, not for them -- he already knows that fear too well from when they’d nearly lost Aramis and does not think he could handle it again), but now too there are those he leaves behind. Whenever the Musketeers had marched before, he’s always taken what little he’d cared about with him. Now …

Constance, the impish younger sister he’d never had, doubly precious for how d’Artagnan’s eyes light up whenever he sees her. Tréville, mentor and second father, the staunch support he can always depend on even when no longer beside them. And Anne … complicated, baffling Anne, who ties his heart in knots and makes him feel alive in ways no one else manages. He’s not sure what he’ll do not knowing when he may see any of them next. He had forgotten, living for years muffled in his grief, how much closeness hurts.

It’s a realisation that leaves him far more melancholy than he’d expected, once everyone parts ways and things have grown quiet. He lingers a little in the courtyard saying good night, and when he comes upstairs at last finds Anne already in the office, standing next to the bookshelf paging through the slender volume in her hands. She looks up at his arrival, and in the light of the single candle on the table her expression is unusually soft.

“‘Si quicquam cupido optantique optigit umquam insperanti, hoc est gratum animo proprie’,” she quotes at his upraised brows as she closes the book and slips it back onto the shelf. The Latin tumbles easily from her mouth, making the underlying emotion all the more clear. As she moves closer he can see that her eyes are bright with humour, and other things he doesn’t dare name. “Really, Athos -- Catullus? I never took you for a sentimental man.”

“Liar,” he says, but it’s a fond remonstrance as his hands find her hips. “You married a sentimental fool and you knew it.”

She tips her chin up to look at him. “I wasn’t aware you still were one.”

 _‘Only for you,’_ he thinks, but instead of saying it he bends his head to kiss her. It’s soft, more a question than anything else, and when she loops her good arm around his neck to pull him close her answer’s clear. The embrace is full of unspoken promises and even more questions, and when they draw apart again he just gazes down at her for a long moment. He doesn’t have any problem recalling her face (never has, for better or worse), but he wants to remember it like this too, with that faint, almost hesitant smile curving her lips and affection in her eyes.

“Will you come to bed?” he asks, and there’s a weight to the question that’s never been there before. They’ve been building to this, long before her departure and return, but there's still a finality here that has had both of them shying away from it. It would be too easy to say he wants this -- wants _her_ \-- only because it is the eve of war, but though that's part it’s far from the whole truth. He wants so much more from her than just tonight.

She steps back; her arm slips away from his neck, fingers finding his, twining with them. “This is not a goodbye.”

He raises her hand to his mouth, kisses the back of it in a courtly gesture from his youth, nearly forgotten. Possible answers choke in his throat, words he dares not give voice to, but she can still read him true and just smiles and takes a step back, tugging him along with her.

They take their time. In their youth they had not been able to keep their hands off each other, and with the boundless energy of the young (and the accompanying sense of endless immortality) their couplings had been things of urgency and passion. They are older now, in their souls far more than their bodies, and they know what it is to lose, and to gain. This is about passion but also about rediscovery, about forgiveness asked for and tentatively given, about hope for what might be. There will be a time for haste, but not yet.

The moon has risen to wash the room in silver when he traces the edge of the scar around her neck with gentle fingertips later. The memory of those last days will always haunt them both, but he understands now better than ever before: the past will never be dead, but neither does it have to be that rope, pinning them irrevocably to what was. “Wait for me,” he whispers against the soft skin of her throat, a quiet entreaty. She was never the one to run, as she’s pointed out, but he can’t help the worry that rises in him now, that this will have all been a dream and he’ll come back from the war to a cold and empty life.

She shivers beneath his touch. “Athos --”

“ _Please_.”

When he lifts his head she’s studying him, her eyes pale and unfathomable in the wan light. “Until death us depart.” Words she spoke in a small chapel eight years before, when she’d been the only thing he saw. “However changed we are, I swear it still -- until then, and beyond.”

They have avoided any declarations thus far as adroitly as two combatants circling, testing each other rather than engaging, but the words lie there between them as surely by their absence. This, he realises as they gaze at each other, is more than they had known years ago -- almost unbearably more, and yet still never enough. He wants _everything_.

He reaches for her with a desperate sound, that forgotten urgency there with a sudden immediacy, drowning him, lifting him, and she meets him with equal need, soft and sharp all at once, and that never-forgotten scent of flowers and _her_ surrounds him and he is lost in her, lost --

... and, as he curls around her later in a tangle of blankets and boneless limbs and surrenders to exhausted slumber, _found_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finding things to quote that existed in this time period and say what I want is horrid, which is why I'm revisiting Catullus -- well, and it works. This particular bit is from [107](http://rudy.negenborn.net/catullus/catullus_compare.php?l=l&carmen1=l107&carmen2=e107), and may be translated as "If anything has happened to one who ever yearned and wished but never hoped, that is a rare pleasure of the soul."
> 
> I went looking for what historical Catholic wedding vows might have looked like, couldn't find the exact verbiage, and then just threw up my hands and went with 'close enough'. "Until death us depart" is Anglican but fits the time period, and since it's apparently drawn from earlier Latin ... pfft.
> 
> As always, you can find me [on Tumblr](http://myalchod.tumblr.com).


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ending chapter was the worst. The _worst_. Thanks to D for hand-holding and input (even if she still needs to watch the show, nudge nudge) and talking me down off the ledge when I was contemplating ripping the entire thing up. You are the most tolerant of friends.  <3

She wakes to Athos' fingers tracing lazy patterns on her bare hip and a sky just starting to shift from black to grey. It is scarcely false dawn, and the last thing she wants to do right now is face the day ahead; right now she is warm, comfortable, happy for the first time in years, and she wants to cling to those uncomplicated feelings just a little while longer before they inevitably change. And so she just lies there, listening to his breath echo her own and soaking in the way she feels. She'll need this memory in the lonely months that will doubtless come, when she'll certainly want to kill him at least once for being an honourable idiot or an out-and-out fool, and when all she'll have of him are memories and the hope of someday.

He brushes a kiss against her shoulder, ghost of a touch, and she turns her head to look at him. His eyes are half-lidded, his expression sleepy and contented and yet shadowed -- with sadness rather than regret. "So," he murmurs.

"If you don't come back," she says, quite reasonably, in lieu of a greeting, "I will track you down and kill you." She's lost him too many times to do it again.

Blue eyes open the rest of the way, fix on her own. "''Quis me uno vivit felicior aut magis hac est optandus vita dicere quis poterit?'" he recites, the final lines of the poem she'd quoted at him yesterday. "You returned, when I was certain you were gone to me forever; how can I not do the same if it is within my power?"

She wants to chide him again, to call him a goddamned tender-hearted fool in an attempt to hold back the sudden wave of emotion, but the words stick in her throat and instead she just shuts him up in the most effective way she’s found. When they draw apart some time later it’s reluctant, and she shivers a little from more than just the morning chill as she pushes the blankets away. There is no delaying this any further.

They help each other dress in the wan grey light of predawn. Her fingers smooth over the angry red scratches she’d left on his back, trace the imprint of her teeth against his collarbone before she ties his shirt closed over it; he bends to kiss the marks sucked into her pale skin, untangles and combs out her hair. It is a slow process, gentle and very nearly delicate, a sharp contrast to the passionate urgency of hours before.

She notices it as they’re working their way back into the last of the clothes discarded so carelessly last night, and swoops to pick it up before he can. Glove dangling between thumb and forefinger, she lifts her brows, purses her lips to try to hold back a smile. “I thought I spotted this last night. It seems sentimental was an understatement.”

He grasps her wrist, but loosely this time, fingers curling warm against bare skin to draw her back in. “I wasn’t sure if you’d meant it as token or challenge,” he says by way of an explanation, and she just smiles an inscrutable smile and tucks the pale lace into his doublet before doing up the rest of the buttons over it.

“You can ask me when you see me next. Consider it motivation.”

His eyes darken: it is the only warning she has before he plunges his hands into her hair and kisses her, deep and fierce and hungry, as though he wants to leave one more mark. “Infuriating woman,” he growls when he lets her go, and she just laughs.

False dawn has given way to true by the time they finally emerge, and she stays on the landing and watches while he descends. They have said what needs to be said, he and she, though there could always be more words and more time spent. It is still more than she had thought to have when she’d waited in vain at the crossroads, more than she’d imagined possible riding back to Paris. After all that, she has to believe the world will give them a chance for even more later -- that they will _make_ it give them that chance.

As she follows his progress through the courtyard, she's struck by just how much he’s changed. The young man she’d married all those years ago had known his duty and accepted it, but it sat on him like an ill-fitting cloak. Their encounters here in Paris had shown her a man even more reluctant to accept a leader’s role, grudgingly shouldering it because that same duty left him no choice. But now ...

“He’s going to be a good captain.”

D'Artagnan's come up the stairs while she was deep in thought, stopping to lean back against the wall beside her. In the shadows of the building she’d been all but invisible, and so it's a bit of a surprise to be noticed and joined. It's more of a surprise that it's him; she would have expected sensitive, conflicted Aramis first, maybe Porthos given their largely-tacit understanding. Not d'Artagnan, who's looked at her askance ever since she framed him for murder in their first meeting -- not d'Artagnan, whose wife she'd nearly killed.

"We'll make sure he survives," he adds into the silence that follows. When she blinks over at him, surprised, he just grins, a quick flash of white teeth in a tanned face still boyishly young. "No one wants to risk your wrath, and we know that's bound to happen if he comes back even a little broken."

He's teasing her. The idea is so alien that it takes her a moment to realise, but when she does something hard and tight unknots within the pit of her stomach. "Better bring yourselves back in one piece too," she retorts, fighting the sudden urge to smile. "He'd be broken just as surely if any one of you got hurt."

They look each other there in the shadows and she knows that, while all is still not forgiven and may never be, this is a step. And when he reaches out to touch her hand, a quick reassuring squeeze, she knows it's acceptance of her place in Athos' life, maybe even grudging approval, and has to suppress the sudden wave of emotion.

"We will," the young man says, and his grin only widens. "We'd be poor Musketeers -- and poor brothers -- if we didn't."

~ * ~

Whatever misgivings he may have about this war (and there are many, because he can love his country and be willing to defend it without wanting to see it descend into conflict again, though he is well-aware of the incongruity of such thoughts in a soldier), Athos feels remarkably at peace as he casts one last look over the garrison courtyard. It’s hardly the first time he’s left it, and it isn’t likely to be the last, but the thought of its walls all but empty is a strange one indeed. Perhaps it should not surprise him, though, with how the past month has been full of unexpected twists and turns. So much has changed, around him and within him, and most of it for the better in the end.

The sight of Constance and d'Artagnan saying their farewells in the shadow of the stables makes him smile. To an unfamiliar eye the young couple might seem to be arguing, but the garrison has watched their story unfold and the amused glances darted their way suggest everyone realises what's going on. And while they might be the most recognisable, they're far from the only pair stealing a moment to bid each other goodbye in these precious last minutes before they ride out.

Porthos stops beside him, chuckling quietly when he noticed where Athos is looking. "Not following their example?" he asks, angling his head towards the landing.

He follows the indicated line back and his eyes meet Anne's where she watches them, leaning against the railing. "I'll leave those displays to the young."

The other man just gives a disbelieving snort. "You're not fooling anyone," is his amused retort as he continues on his path back to Aramis' side.

Athos' fingers lift to briefly touch his doublet, and he watches the corners of Anne's mouth tug up in a faint smile, knowing and fond. Any proper farewell would be too maudlin for the people they are, but these small intimate gestures mean more than the words he will save for a nebulous later -- a later he means to see they have. Whatever he might have expected to happen when his estranged wife rode into the garrison two weeks ago, this outcome had never crossed his mind. It seems to be the rule of things when it comes to Anne: she storms into his life and throws it into chaos, leaving it forever changed. He can only hope that this time things do not fall apart around them -- that they do not pull the world down around themselves.

But they are different, he and she, and while he still wonders and hesitates and second-guesses (they both do, and in their reservations they are far too alike), this is a far cry from how they have parted before. And in promises, both spoken and not, he sees for the first time something he'd thought dead and burned and buried as the chateau at Pinon. Perhaps, he thinks. Perhaps when this war is done, then they will finally have time to address this properly, and see ...

But first there must be war, and so he calls a command to mount and swings up into the saddle. The regiment follows suit (still strange, to have them following his orders, but less so with each passing day and no longer uncomfortable), and he watches the shuffle of men and horses as they begin to form up. They may be riding off to war, but this is a storm they’ll be able to weather. It’s a storm he now has the certainty of being able to face, steadier than he’s felt in years -- perhaps than ever before in his life.

“You think too loudly,” d’Artagnan says, reining up on his left. When Athos darts a glance over, the younger man just offers him a wry smile. “Captain.”

“Impudent whelp,” he counters, but it’s fond and d’Artagnan just grins more broadly. Their Gascon pup has grown up too; the more Athos watches him, the more he feels confident in his decision to start grooming d’Artagnan for command, just as (he’s realised, in hindsight) Tréville had groomed him. He’ll do well in the captaincy someday.

Aramis and Porthos have come up on the right, and he looks over at them in turn. Aramis hasn’t been the same since returning from Douai (hasn’t, if he’s honest, been the same since his time in gaol), and it worries him, but he’s clearly unwilling to discuss it and Athos hasn’t pushed. Perhaps in the field -- or perhaps he’ll ask Porthos. Whatever Aramis’ reasons for being here, it’s evident he’s made some shaky peace with that, and Athos will respect that.

If d’Artagnan has grown into himself over the past year, and Aramis become wrapped in a vague melancholy, then Porthos is their anchor: unchanged in the face of discoveries about his heritage this past year, that steady good humour unwavering. More often than not recently, Athos finds himself thinking that Porthos may be the strongest of them all. But no matter how much or how little any of them have changed, he’s glad beyond measure to have all three at his side, now and in the days to come.

_‘If it must be war,’_ he thinks, _‘then this is no bad way to face it.’_ Brothers at his side, family (for what else is he leaving here in Paris?) watching his back … If he cannot prove worthy of all that has been entrusted to him with that to stand on, he will surely never be. Perhaps the callow youth who came to Paris those years ago has not only become a man but become whole as well, and finally understands his course.

“We’re doing this, then?”

A quiet murmur at his elbow, steady and sure. He looks over, meets Aramis’ dark eyes. The melancholy is still there, but a grim determination overlays it. They all carry the past with them -- personal demons, regrets and ghosts and shared secrets that bind them, and though this has been a bloody month, with more than its fair share of trials,  and promises to be a bloodier year yet, there is no doubt in him that they are stronger together than they have ever been. Aramis’ resolution, Porthos’ equanimity, d’Artagnan’s fire -- It’s enough to not only weather the storm but to bring them all home whole. Of that he is sure.

He reaches out, clasps Aramis’ arm and tries to convey some of that bone-deep certainty. Only when the other man nods just a little, some of the tautness easing, does he affirm, “We’re doing this.” And, louder, carrying through the courtyard as he draws back to rise in his stirrups, “Musketeers -- for king and country! All for one --”

“ _And one for all_!” thunders back around him, echoing in the courtyard and the city beyond. Whatever comes, these men are ready. _He_ is ready.

Horseshoes a storm against the cobbles, cloaks a wave of blue, bright-polished steel fire in the sunlight, they ride.

_And any action_  
_Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat_  
_Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start._  
\- _(T. S. Eliot,_ Little Gidding _)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attributions: Athos quotes the [same Catullus poem](http://rudy.negenborn.net/catullus/catullus_compare.php?l=l&carmen1=l107&carmen2=e107) Anne did in the preceding chapter; the lines can be translated as "Who lives more happily than I alone, or who will be able / to say that these things are to be hoped for more than this life?". End quote is T. S. Eliot's "Little Gidding", from _Four Quartets_ , same as the starting quote and the source of the title.
> 
> A giant _giant_ THANK YOU to everyone who's left comments and kudos and random whatnot throughout, because seriously, each and every one of those meant -- means -- so much. This little story got a lot bigger than I'd ever imagined, and that would've never happened without all of you making me _want_ to finish it instead of continuing my usual meander into vignettes.  <3 (And I never ended up filling that original prompt. Oops. :D )
> 
> Someone asked me on Tumblr whether I'd be writing a sequel, and while I don't plan to, I've got plans to revisit this 'verse. There were scenes during and (mostly) after that didn't fit in or that I want to explore, and I like where it's gone, so ... (In the meantime, go read [Home From the Wars](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3870430) if you haven't already. It's awesome!)
> 
> As always, you can find me [on Tumblr](http://myalchod.tumblr.com). My askbox is always open, for questions or prompts or general chatter.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Home from the Wars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3870430) by [ScoutLover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover)




End file.
